Graveyard: A Caskett Collection
by JohnQKole
Summary: A series of short stories surrounding Beckett and Castle's relationship. This will be an ongoing compilation of stories, largely lovey and smutty. The show has been over a while, so I'm not sure if people are still reading, but I just started watching and I'm hooked on Caskett. Some will be in cannon, some diverging, but I'll make it clear with each short story within.
1. Unquestioned Pt 1

**A/N- This is definitely adults only stuff, for those who enjoy that kind of thing. Also, this first chapter, I know everyone's written Post-Always, but I can't help it, so I added to the large body of work already out there.**

 **I'll play with shifting perspective and the power dynamic a bit, since I think that's part of what I enjoy about them.**

 **I hope one or two of you out there enjoy this as much as I did writing it (even if I'm REALLY late to the party)!**

 **This disclaimer applies to all chapters: I do not own these characters and do not profit in any way.**

 **Unquestioned**

 **Part 1 of 2**

 **In cannon/Post Always: Castle**

Beckett takes his hand with such confidence that he can feel the certainty of her decisions through the contact. Taking a few steps further into his apartment, guiding them toward his bedroom with peripheral sight, she never really stops looking at his face. In her expression, he can see determination, desire, excitement, all things that quicken his heart's efforts to send blood southward. How is it possible that she is prettier like this, rain-, defeat- and sorrow-drenched, after fighting for her own life?

But there is an undercurrent beneath the beautifully arousing façade, and he can feel what he can only postulate is a still aching sense of guilt. She smiles heatedly, and he simply cannot believe his inspiration, his muse, his love so long unrequited, is looking at him this way.

She sways into his bedroom, looking more hurried with each passing breath, and he tamps down the urge to cut through her clothes with the force of years of desire and take her. But he isn't _just_ a man of desire, he's a man of love, a romantic, fascinated by the moment as it unfolds. There are so many things they should discuss, he knows. What does this mean, how does she feel, will this last beyond this night? Not a single question has passed his lips since he slammed her against the door and finally felt her crushed against him.

Kate lets go of his hand, pushing his bedroom door shut with a foot while putting a palm against his chest to keep him where she wants him. She clumsily kicks her shoes away and shrinks a few inches in height. She's close, but not close enough. He is certain this won't go much further. Something will happen, something will prevent him from touching her, to stop them from being together. The tightness in his lower body intensifies simply at the thought of making love to her, and he shivers when the prospect of being inside her creeps into his conscious mind. He shoves the notion away from the forefront, wanting to savor each second as it lasts before the inevitable road block or disaster.

He's not sure if he's more intrigued by the physical prospects or the thought that she may actually let him into her heart. With all need for bravado dissolved, he knows he wants both equally. He watches as she drops her jacket from her shoulders. It hits the ground with disproportional weight. She seems to still be okay with shedding literal and figurative layers.

She comes back to him, fingers against his chest with barely a touch that tells him he's meant to stand there. And he's not going to push her, not yet. His mind keeps reminding him that this cannot possibly be happening. She wants to undress him, and she makes it clear with her eyes as she unbuttons his shirt. Rising on her tiptoes, she kisses him, her lips staggered between his and tugging him in. It is Kate's mouth on his, he's still stunned, and he knows beyond doubt that he's never been so intensely turned on his life, never wanted someone or something more than he wants her.

He realizes as she runs her hands down his chest, exploring the plane of his torso, that her fingers are pruned from being out in the rain so long, and the gentleman in him is reminded that she's probably uncomfortable. When he speaks, his voice is gravelly and low, and he states, "You're cold."

Just the corner of her mouth twitches up. She steps more fully into his space, her still mostly covered body pushing against him, chilly and sobering. "I thought, maybe, you could help me out with that," she answers alluringly. "If you don't have other plans."

"I definitely don't have any other plans," he answers immediately.

The playful seductiveness that she wants to convey is lost in the sadness he still sees behind her eyes. He knows why without asking, he can see and feel the regret she carries for hurting him.

His hand touches her face, thumb brushing her cheek. The possibilities in that second feel so endless, but he can't stop it, can't stop himself from curling his fingers behind her head and kissing her with all of the need he feels. Her lips part immediately and their tongues meet, the pair frenetically nip and pull as they kiss.

She moves away only a little, contorting quickly out of her shirt, and when her fingers grab his belt and drag him back to her, he thinks he may die from anticipation. He remains there, bewitched, as he gazes down between them and watches her jerk and slide the buckle open. He's so damn hard that he can't wait to be rid of his pants.

A doubtful worry crawls up in the back of his mind, wondering if she'll suddenly note the most obvious indications of his interest and reply, ' _In your dreams, Castle,'_ or ' _You know I have a gun'_ or something that she's said too many times before when he's gawked or made a suggestive comment. But she doesn't do anything so cruel.

Instead she opens his pants, each of the teeth of his zipper chattering as she frees him. Suddenly she seems too impatient, pushing his pants and boxers down his thighs. She hums a soft approval as she looks down at his exposed form for the first time. That hum, that whispered sound, resonates through his body. She drops to a knee, pulling his pants the rest of the way down to the ground as he helps her shuck them off. He's grateful his shoes are already gone, appreciative of every piece of apparel that is removed and a bit resentful of anything that remains.

He holds out a hand to help her stand, not because she needs it but because damn he loves her so much, and his desire to care for her is something that he feels on a very intrinsic level. She ignores his offering, her hands surrounding the outsides of his thighs and moving to the front of his hips once they're high enough. Her mouth moves slowly toward him, and his own thoughts are bursting and spreading like fire over long-dried brush.

He can only watch, frozen with a need that seems to have a gravity-force grip on him. Her head tilts and moves to the base of his cock, and he feels her lips surround the underside of his shaft. Her mouth works him over, laving, kissing, lapping at his sex. He's never felt anything like this, and he's had plenty of women in his time, but he already knows she'll ruin him for anyone else. After all, she isn't just 'some woman.' She moves patiently upward, savoring him until she reaches the tip, her tongue tickling the spot where his shaft vees beneath his cockhead.

Her lips envelop his tip and ever so deliberately slide downward, taking gradually increasing lengths of him into her mouth each time she returns. This will probably end him, although that isn't motive enough to make him stop indulging. But he looks down at her, sees her eyes gaze up at him, beautiful and lusty, and he can almost hear her still whispering, ' _I'm so sorry, Castle.'_

Clearly she isn't speaking, but somehow he hears it as it emanates from her. She apologized several times, but he never verbally responded. He wants their first night to be built on love and attraction, not guilt and apology. He reaches down for her elbows, knowing that no man, absolutely no man in his right mind, would ever even considering stopping her when she feels like this. Her confidence looks shaken, like maybe she's also worried this might come to an abrupt end and she'll be left with heartache. He shakes his head, the mere thought of her in pain forcing him to assuage her concerns. He can see another apology forming, or maybe he's wrong, but he responds before she can say it aloud.

"You don't have to be sorry. You're here. You came to my door…you said…you said you wanted me. You chose me," he states devoutly. "That was all I needed." Hell, he sounds so undone, almost crazy with desire for her body and her soul, but he doesn't care that he's bared his heart before her so plainly.

She smiles softly at first, unable to stop it from spreading as she appears warmed by the words.

He adds, "And maybe I needed to catch my breath, slow things down a little…just for a minute."

She pinches her lip between her teeth, a shyly anticipatory gesture that scrambles his brain again. He tilts his head as he looks down her body, that sinfully sexy black striped bra beckoning him. Instead he reaches for her pants, opening the button and zipper as he searches for her approval. As soon as she doesn't protest, it's his turn to kneel, pulling her pants and panties down together, pausing the momentary brusqueness to help her free each foot.

He moves to the apex of her thighs, and feels he's been somehow specially blessed as he smells her arousal, so delightful and intriguing that he cannot wait for the taste of her on his tongue. He's patient but impatient, moving closer but so desperately hoping to hear her plead for him the way his body is pleading for her. For a moment, he kisses her sex, as chastely as one can kiss such an intimate place, and then he feels her hips shift in invitation.

The thing that completely shatters the scant amount of cool he's maintained is the slippery moisture that's so abundant that it's evident even from that kiss. Kate Beckett is hot for him, ridiculously aroused with liquid heat, literally dripping with want. He doesn't hold her hips, he only allows his tongue to escape his mouth and trace the parting of her labia. He hopes he can taste this forever, vowing that he would drop to his knees to pleasure her whenever she desired. He wiggles his tongue, starting low near her entrance and taking his time to slink upwards toward her clit.

She's trying to order him to go where she wants him immediately, but he won't be rushed. His hands do not hold her hips, but she's right against his mouth. He doesn't have to hold her there, she stays under her own power, and he wants to know that, he wants to feel that.

At some point his hand moves to her hip and then to her ass, bringing her to his lips, while the fingertips of his other hand brush over the skin of her inner thigh. As the thought of being inside her returns to his mind, he finds his hand rushing, speeding more hurriedly upward. Her fingers press into his hair, goddamn he loves her needing him. The moment his finger pushes into her body, he feels electricity zip through him, because he, Rick Castle, is inside her. At least some part of him is, and it is intoxicating. He's wanted to be here, to be granted entrance, and even if it's only a finger, he is learning the shape, the contours, the feeling of her.

"God, Kate," he rasps out against her, the low vibrations of his voice causing her to cry out as her fingers press more forcefully to the back of his head.

"Fuck," she nearly sings, stretching out the word, her eyes growing wild with missing when he moves away.

He wants that first orgasm, that first frantic, desperate, fluttering explosion, to happen on his cock, to well up from her when he's buried deep inside so he can feel it all, and can see her face as she loses control. It's selfish, and he's okay with that. He's been through hell to get here, and he's desperate for them to meet that summit together.

She lowers her body, pushing him back onto the hardwood floor. The long strands of the nearby rug tickle his ankle, and remind him that they're so near his bed, but he's not about to interrupt this to suggest that they move. There's something so hot about her needing him so much that she can't be bothered to make it a few feet farther into the room. Her knees are on either side of him, she's actually straddling his hips, the heat of her is against his body. He suspects that if he can nudge her clit with his cock, lift his hips and brush against her just right, she'll unravel. And it's tempting, so tempting to do exactly that. She is flushed, pupils dilated, breath ragged, hair still hanging in damp strands.

Her bra catches his eye. He always assumed in fantasy that he'd have her topless before he'd know the taste of her. He licks his lips as soon as he remembers, and, yes, the flavor of her is still there. He sits up, reaching around her as he kisses her, so slowly, so passionately, that he knows she must feel the love he has. At least he hopes. His arms wind around her and he unhooks her bra, his hands finding her breasts before he sees them.

When curiosity wins, he backs up and looks at her in all her glory, just full enough to fill his hands, soft yet firm, and peaked. His lips descend a bit roughly on her. He's imagined this as well, but they're both too impatient for more foreplay right now. He reminds himself that if she allows them to do this again, he's going to spend time suckling there. He wonders if she has any idea how many things he wants to do to her, and how hard it is to choose between them all.

Her pelvis moves forward, and he feels her slickness on his sex. He's resting between her folds, not in her, but his position is so intimate, so familiar, that he's awestruck.

She presses his shoulders down, guiding him back to the floor again. Kate takes his wrists, moving them to the floor above his head. He's acutely aware of the fact that she is _taking_ him, asserting her will, and he couldn't possibly be happier about it, or more turned on at the prospect. She moves over him, allowing him to slide through the cleft, so wet and warm and smooth, and he would tell her that he can't believe how fucking soaked she is for him if he could make the words come.

Lacing her fingers with his, she leans forward and kisses him one more time as she shifts over his body, tempting, luring, but not quite meeting the need that had built for either of them. She moves his hands closer together, and holds him there with just one of her hands, not that he's trying to escape. He can't really think of much he wouldn't do for her.

With her other hand she moves between their bodies, and he feels the delectable sensation of her long slim fingers surrounding his girth, bringing him right to her entrance, his glans pressing just short of being allowed within. One thrust, one lift of his hips, would breach her body. The thought of being 'in her pussy' crosses his mind, in those exact words, and he's not sure if he can wait any longer. He considers telling her that, wondering how she would feel about dirty whispered suggestions.

She looks down at his face for just a moment, and she smiles so lovingly that he feels fulfilled on some level even while so far from fulfillment. "Kate," he pleads, just that one word, but it somehow says more than all of the best-selling words he's published combined.

And yes, there are still a hundred conversations that should be happening. He should ask her about protection. He should ask if he should pull out before he comes. He should ask if she loves him the way he loves her, or if she'll be gone before dawn. As necessary as all of those questions are, they are forgotten, evaporated into the haze.

When he does nothing to pause or stop her, she presses with steady force, and the sensation of her body yielding to his penetration becomes his entire existence. As she brings him into her body, he growls in delight, sounding pleasured and pained all at once, but the feminine moan that escapes her lips, harmonizing with his own vocalizations, cuts into him. He's surrounded by her, the pressure gloriously crushing. He doesn't realize the way his whole body tightens from his toes to the top of his scalp; he only notices her, them, and their joining.

She doesn't move quickly at first, but she doesn't relent until he's swallowed up within her. It's heaven, sheer bliss, and he hasn't even hit that sweet spot yet.

Her inner muscles are snapped tight around him, he feels her wetness coating him, covering him. She's now got his hands beneath both of hers again, their fingers locking. This moment is a pause in chaos, one of joy and incredible sensations that won't easily be forgotten.

She leans forward, and it seems she needs to move, has to, and as much as he's enjoyed this so far, his body is grateful for any friction. Her nipples move over his chest, and he wants his hands back but elects to relish the way she's choosing to fuck him, to claim him for her own.

Her undulations begin small, but soon she's lifting away, and the cold air meets his shaft as the confines of her body slip away before taking him in again. She's moaning, calling out sounds that can't quite be translated. He's not sure if he should tell her that she's so damn tight he can barely take it. She's somehow firm and soft at the same time, and he wants to bury himself in her forever.

She leans back, a beautiful fantasy writhing over him, hips turning in long, desperate waves. His eyes are glued to her, to them, searching her body. He watches her breasts bobbing as he thrusts up from the ground, moving out of need rather than design. Her lips are parted as she pants, her collarbones lining the upper limit of her chest. Her taut tummy rises and falls with breath, becoming more stuttered. He's not sure if he should look, but he has to, just like he has to keep pushing into her body, and his eyes lower to their joining. He's confirming it with another sense, seeing the way he's pistoning in and out of her. The view does not disappoint, so hot, so erotic.

She pulls him up until he's sitting, her body between his slightly tented knees. Bringing his hands around her, she places his palms both on her ass, and she instructs him wordlessly to encourage her movement. She's so demanding, so decisive about what she needs, and it's perfect. It's her, he truly can't believe it. He's going to please her, to make sure he is the man she will call upon to meet her needs and quench her desires.

Now he's grinding into her, pushing her hips to meet his, their pace quickening. His eyes start to see in only black and bursts of scattered color. Damn he needs this, he needs to resolve this tension that's been building for four years. He knows nothing else has provided any relief for his longing for her.

She wraps her arms around his neck, her elbows resting on his shoulders while she holds onto him like he's her lifeline. She sighs the words 'close' and 'Castle,' she's too turned on to think enough to select his first name or say any more.

"You are?" he asks, his voice strained so much that the pride he feels upon hearing her words isn't clear.

She nods roughly, moaning out her pleasure, kissing him so deliriously that he's hurtling to the end.

"Let go," he rasps against her lips, and those few words make her scream.

Hard.

Her body clenches down on him, her hips jerking with less coordination, and he vaguely knows he's speaking in 'yesses' and curses as everything, every impulse, fires and explodes in bliss as he pours into her. He hears her whimper when his hearing returns, noting that his fingers ache from gripping her and holding her tight against him. They're still rocking, more like pulsing, together, not relenting but soaking up the final waves of release.

She crumbles onto him, their bodies still united. She's limp and sweaty, and the fact that she doesn't run away makes him smile into her hair. He takes her hand, his limbs heavy like he's moving under water. Bringing her hand to his lips, he places delicate kisses on her knuckles and then in her palm.

Her eyes finally meet his, although she's shy, which seems so strange compared to the abandon with which she's just screwed his brains out. She lets her still damp hair fall in front of her face.

He delicately slides the strands away, brushing them back, allowing their mouths to find each other again. That kiss, although less urgent, is deeper, more passionate, slow and melding.

As his pulse eases, the questions grow louder. He wants to know what is going on in her head, but remains silent. He knows how hard it was for her to come here, to be vulnerable, to risk rejection. For now, he's going to enjoy the afterglow, to feel her with him. Maybe, if he's as lucky as he hopes he is, he'll earn a second go.

She smiles at him with _that_ smile, the slightly heart-shaped bow on her upper lip that he's wanted to kiss for so long emerging. Standing, perhaps regretfully, she slips off to the bathroom, and he's left to wonder if she's going to leave. If she does, he's going to be crushed. He already knows this. For the moment, he stays on the floor, waiting for the coming moments to unfurl.

Returning after just a moment, she crosses the floor, practically hovering above it weightlessly. She actually looks happy. She goes immediately to the light switch and darkens the room. He would have picked her up, carried her to his bed had she not disappeared so quickly. She reaches out a hand that he can barely see, but knows is there, and he takes it. Standing in front of her, he brings her body close to his, folds his arms around hers and manages to say, "Stay."

He imagines that she bites her lip although he cannot see her well enough to confirm, but he can feel her nod, and he's almost giddy as he leads her to his bed. He sinks down in first, lifting her over him so she's lying along the right half of his body. Her thigh drapes over him, her hand settling on his chest. He keeps looking up at the ceiling and smiling.

* * *

Up Next: Round 2: Beckett's Perspective


	2. Unquestioned Pt 2

**A/N-This last week was really very exciting for me. I had hoped to get one or two reviews, so I was blown away when I received more, and more favorites and follows than I ever thought I'd get. I've always heard writers asking for reviews, and now I know why! It's so very affirming to know that someone out there is reading. So thank you so very much for the welcome, and for taking your time to read my story and let me know how you feel.**

 **Unquestioned**

 **Part 2 of 2**

 **In cannon/Post Always: Kate**

Showing up at Castle's door after their fight was one of the most daunting obstacles Kate had ever surmounted. For so long she'd been the guardian, the one who kept enough space and distance between them to avoid succumbing to temptation. She was the one who had to open the gates, invite him through. Earlier that night, she found that for once she was the one chasing him, worried that he would be the roadblock that would prevent them from converging. She knocked on his door, offered her heart to him to accept or reject. It was terrifying. And, thankfully, worth it.

At least she thinks so now as she's lying in his bed. Castle does something to her that she's not sure she really understands. She was never prone to jealousy in relationships before him, but maybe that was because she always had one foot out the door. But before anything had ever happened between them, she found herself despising the women who gazed in his direction even though she didn't have any claim to him at the time.

Everything feels almost perfect for once. It shouldn't since she still failed to get justice for her mother, but against reason, it does. Life taught her that perfect moments never last, so for now, she's going to enjoy every second lying naked next to him in his fantastically comfortable bed. She knows now that his bragging over the years has not been unfounded. No, the man definitely did not disappoint her. She cannot think of adequate words to describe what just happened or how it felt. If Castle, the wordsmith, has any words to that effect, he's not sharing them.

She swears her toes are still a little curled.

While she's recalling the experience, she realizes that she wasn't exactly _quiet_ , and for the first time this night she remembers that other people live in his home, too. She tenses, lifting up a little, and she feels him flinch worriedly in response. "Is anyone else home?" she abruptly asks, bringing reality back to them.

"No," he answers softly, shaking his head.

"Because I wasn't exactly quiet, and—"

"Really?" he sarcastically questions. "Oh, yes, that's right, I did kinda notice that." He beams, and she can hear it. More reassuringly, he adds with a sultry whisper, "Alexis is out celebrating her graduation, Mother is in the Hamptons. It's just us tonight."

He's lying on his back with her draped over him, and his arm surrounding her, his knuckles moving over her in a way that makes her feel so adored. She doesn't know why, it's just his fingers moving over her lats. The funny thing is, even though her orgasm caused quakes she can still feel resonating, she doesn't have any less longing for him. In fact, she almost wants him more now than she did before. Why wasn't there any awkwardness between them during their first round? Shouldn't it have taken them more time to figure each other out? As new and exciting as each touch was, it was almost like they already knew each other. Or maybe they each played it through in their minds so many times before that they were somehow more prepared. After all, she'd be insanely embarrassed if he knew exactly how frequently she'd imagined him while alone in her bed at night, fantasizing about what could be if she allowed it.

So many questions hang in the air, but she doesn't want to break this spell, not right now. She's still not sure if everything is forgiven. Now that he's been inside her, making her cry out his name, will his interest dissipate? Maybe he enjoyed the thought, the mystery of her, more than the reality, and his mind will seek out a new unknown. Now that she's dropped her walls, that she's let him into her heart, she knows that rejection from him will devastate her on a level she's not really ready to face.

She closes her eyes and tells herself to let it go, to indulge, to let this night be about being in Castle's arms, and she can figure out the future tomorrow.

As she feels his bare skin against her bare skin at every point where their bodies meet, she wonders if maybe he'll want to have her again. Goddamn, she hopes so. She can't even begin to describe how wonderful he felt. She giggles for a second as she thinks that the talents of his tongue are probably due to the exercise it gets while he's constantly talking.

"What?" he whispers, tightening his arm around her, softly kissing her forehead. "What's funny?"

Resting her hand on his chest and her chin on top of her hand, she shakes her head. "Nothing important." She tussles her hair and adds, quietly, "Look, I should tell you that even though turning in my badge makes me seem extremely irresponsible, I'm not completely reckless. You don't have to worry about birth control or—"

"What?" Castle blurts so loudly she jerks slightly with surprise.

"Well, I have an IUD, so you don't have to worry about—"

"Yea I wasn't worried about _that_ ," he interrupts, sounding quite confused.

"You weren't?" she asks with equal befuddlement.

"No. I mean _yes_. I mean… _no_. Obviously that's good to hear. I—it's just that I know you're a careful person. You are way too controlling to risk someth—" he pauses himself so thoroughly she can hear the brakes squeal. "Controlling in a good way," he clarifies. "Believe me, in this instance, I'm glad one of us was responsible."

"Then why did you sound so shocked?" Kate questions.

"The other thing. Your _badge_."

"Oh. Yea, I quit. I already told you, didn't I?"

"I would have remembered that," he says, initially certain until she can hear him question his own recollections. "At least I think. You were a bit…uhh…distracting."

"Distracting?" she asks, grinning. She's always enjoyed the way she can numb his brain, and turn him into a gawking mess.

"You really quit?" he asks, the intimacy of the conversation saturating his tone.

"I'm done. I'm done, Castle. I told you…I just want you. I don't want to spend my life ignoring something that might be real so that I can chase shadows," she slides her foot down his leg and pats her fingers on his chest. "And you feel…very real."

The sudden flurry of conversation dies down again. She knows she should probably explain more, but she doesn't want to think about Gates, badges or cases right now. At the same time, she doesn't think she can standing making her heart any more vulnerable than she already has. Kate just hopes that he understands that, for once, she wants to think about her personal life instead of her professional one. And she hopes to hell he's not leaving her personal life any time soon.

As the silence blankets them comfortably, she feels his warm body breathing next to her, the softness of his fingers on her flesh. They are not rough and calloused, the soft, smooth fingers of a man of words.

"This…feels nice," she confesses with the gravity of a person admitting a long hidden secret.

"Does it?" His happiness is evident through his tone, and she's relieved to momentarily table the emotionally heavy 'feelings' conversation and return to the more carnal aspects of the evening. Attraction is easier to admit than all-out love.

Her only verbal reply is, "Mmm hmm," and she feels him shiver at her purr.

"If you think this is good…"

For some reason she feels like a rookie at this, because her heart hiccups before it pumps faster even from his relatively tame words. It isn't the words themselves, but the way they're said. Castle, with such unexpected gentleness, rolls her onto her back, lying on his side next to her. She feels his thumb barely brush over her lips, and she knows he's waiting, as she is, for any sign of regret. She's pretty sure he's as worried about being pushed away as she is, but there's no way she could hurt him right now…she just doesn't have it in her.

Instead she purses her lips against the pad of his thumb to invite his touch, and she can feel his chest rise as he breathes just a little deeper. When he comes closer, she feels his tongue glance along the opening between her lips, tracing a delicate line. She should be embarrassed by how easily she moans for him. She feels her center tightening and her skin flush at the thought of having him again. She's waited for this touch, kept him at arm's length for so long that having him so near is overwhelming.

Her lips part and encircle his tongue, not only welcoming his kiss but pulling him in and insistently asserting herself. He scolds, "Ah, ah, ah, Beckett… _Kate_. You've had your turn to lead. Now it's my turn."

She swallows loudly enough that she's certain he can hear it.

She likes being in control in so much of her life, but the thought of him taking the upper hand is just as enticing, at least in the bedroom. He seems more confident this time, emboldened by the things that have already happened and intrigued by the things he would like to do next.

His hand touches her face, directing her to move as the meeting of their mouths becomes a more thorough exploration before he pulls away. When he returns to her, he licks a loving trail down the side of her neck, so slowly, like he needs to devour her in small bits at a time. The dip where her shoulder and neck meet get extra attention, probably because she cries out so luxuriously that he can tell it's one of the spots that will make her crazy.

Her core is throbbing already, and he's nowhere near there, nor does he appear hurried to venture there any time soon. Once again, the man is killing her patience. But this time, she is loving every second of it.

If he won't meet her need, she'll address it herself, so she squeezes her thighs together, so desperately craving attention that she doesn't care if it seems impatient. But he notices, because he notices _everything_ about her.

"Patience," he softly commands, separating her legs. "I will make sure you get everything that you need. I promise." She's been listening to him talk for years, but his voice never did _this_ to her, low and erotic, his heavier breath evident beneath the words. Her eyes are heavy with lust, her chest conspicuously rising and falling.

While his mouth moves to the center of her chest, leaving echoes of delight behind, his hand pushes her legs farther apart, not roughly, but definitely decisively. He will not be denied, not that she has even considered doing that. He kneels between her knees, and she automatically opens them more to accommodate him, tilting her hips, ready to have him shoving inside her again.

She feels anxious and eager, like she didn't just come with wild intensity a short while ago.

His hands brace on either side of her torso. He's tracing patterns with his mouth over her skin that she can't predict, bestowing extra attention in all the right places. He is amazingly observant, picking up on the tiniest signals. He's so good at reading her that it's almost annoying, or would be if it weren't one of the most enjoyable experiences of her life. Then she realizes he's studying, researching her in ways he was never allowed to before. For all of the myriad things he knows, he's never known her like this.

Snippets of his steamier chapters, ones she's read again and again for the thrill, flash in her mind's eye, and she wonders if the things he's learning will end up in print. She's never felt more willing to provide him with all of the inspiration he can handle.

She is completely overcome by the surging beat she feels in her core, the near-burning flush that spreads over her skin as he licks the spot beneath her ribs and across her tummy. This simply shouldn't feel as good as it does. Logic doesn't apply, and her reactions are as unfounded as magic and ghosts and aliens, but it seems that every inch of her has become an erogenous zone.

If those somewhat innocuous spaces are suddenly pleasure centers, the sensations in the typical places are oh so amplified. When his attention turns to her breast, she arches to encourage him, her palms covering his ears and holding him against her. He sighs his approval, seeming so unhurried compared to the way he was the last round. She doesn't feel the same though, not at all. Her entire being is pleading with her to make a move and take the reins to get what she wants. At the same time she would love for him to continue this oral ballet he's performing on her forever if he'll just give her something, any pressure against her sex so she isn't lifting her hips into the air searching for relief she doesn't find.

Kate hears a plea-filled sigh, practically begging, and can't believe the noise is coming from her. The sound seems to shake him to reality. He pauses, and she can feel the heat of his gaze, eyes lidded with desire.

He can't deny her, dropping his torso down so his abdomen is pressing at the top of her thighs. She winds her legs around his body, locking onto him with vise-like resolve. Between his hands and his mouth, he's giving plenty of attention to both nipples, and she knows her body won't take much more before she's over the edge.

It should be embarrassing, coming so close to orgasm while he's just lying against her and lavishing affection on her breasts. But she isn't embarrassed. She's enamored, intensely stimulated, consumed by the loving treatment he bestows.

She assumes he's unrushed because his body needs time to recover after the last go, but as she wriggles beneath him, she can feel he's already rock hard for her. She imagines how intense his own desires must be, how much pressure he must feel built up, how thoroughly he must crave release. Since there is no physiological reason for him to delay, she concludes that he simply _wants_ to do these things to her more than he wants to take care of his own urges.

She almost screams out, 'why the hell aren't you inside me,' until she feels the pulse of orgasm swell and drown out her inner voice. It's unavoidable, unstoppable, crushing her resolve and silencing her mind. Her entire form trembles noticeably, legs grasping at his sides, fingers locked and rigid as she pushes her body to his. It isn't like she has a choice.

When her brain can support thought again, she braces. He's going to gloat. It's going to be bad because now he has proof that he can reduce her to a panting, quivering mess again and again, and this time all too easily.

His body shifts, making space so he can reach between them. His knuckle slides oh so gently between her folds, and she bucks and yips with an aftershock even though the touch is scant. He eases the ache by lowering his weight against her again with steady pressure. He hums his approbation with an, "Mmm," as he sucks on the finger he just used to gather up her wetness. The gloating she expects from him does not follow. No, when he comes close to her ear, he whispers, "You taste absolutely exquisite. I'm already thinking about the next time I get to kiss you there, so intimately, dip my tongue into your body, savor your essence."

"You are?" she asks, feeling her lips pull into a wide grin even though arousal's grip on her continues. His words tease just as effectively as his body.

"Most definitely. But for now…" he rasps, pulling himself up her long body, positioning his cock at her threshold, "I need you so badly, Kate. I can't think of anything but you…being inside you again."

And he waits, still making sure he's invited, allowed. Instead of giving verbal assent, she uses all of her resources, her legs and feet, arms, hands and hips, to pull him into her. The sound that comes from his chest can only be described as intense pleasure and extraordinary gratitude as he sinks back into her body. He's thick, firm, and long, deliciously filling her to the brim. She basks in the insistent weight of him stretching and penetrating her, demanding entrance.

She flexes her inner muscles, clutching his erection as he sighs, lips gaped, into her mouth. She wants to be memorable, to stand out from the crowd of women he's already had. Even now, she wants to be the best.

Kate sees him stripped down to his most basic self, poise destroyed. He's a man swept up by his current circumstance and the intensities of everything that passes between them. He seems awed by her slick heat, completely lost in her. All he can do is feel, experience, and he bows his head, pressing his forehead to hers. In this moment he is so vulnerable and exposed, truly without defense, and it makes her caution disintegrate. She can't possibly verbalize every feeling that's swirling through her heart, so she shows him.

Through the slow, hungry kiss she offers, she hopes he can feel what she's trying to convey. As her lips meet him, her body holding him tight, a slight whimper escapes his chest. He's surrendered to her, to their feelings, and that sound sends a tingling surge scattering across her nerves.

His hand easily surrounds her hip, his thumb across her lower abdomen. His grasp feels huge and powerful. She wants him to hang on and never let go. She tightens her grip on his manhood, squeezing him in a rippling, rhythmic pulse. He growls into her mouth, "Again," no please, no sweet request. It's a demand.

She complies without witty retort or deflection, offering him what he so clearly wants. For a few seconds, he's so lost he doesn't move. But she doesn't want to play. She needs this orgasm as much, maybe more, than the last one and the one before that. So her heels dig roughly against the backs of his thighs, her hands palming his ass cheeks and pulling him inside until she feels him thoroughly swallowed up in her.

She moves just a little, rocking to try to make their impossible degree of closeness just a little closer. Something in him snaps, his hazy arousal becoming determined and focused. He pulls out, and shoves back into her so abruptly that she cries out, her body pulsing both automatically and intentionally. His dam breaks, and with the next heartbeat he's thrusting powerfully into her like he's clearly been dying to do.

She doesn't want him to be sweet right now, she wants him to fuck her senseless, to let passion overtake hesitation and caution. And it does. Her voice is telling him this, actually vocalizing her desires in unhindered admissions, although she never gave herself permission to tell him these things so bluntly.

Their careful orchestrations fade into more primal meetings, instinct and compulsion directing their movements since their brains are now fully checked out. He's chasing her, of course she's used to that, but this time he's actually pursuing her up the bed. He lifts her like she's weightless, pushing her back against the headboard so he can pound into her with her body against something firmer than the mattress. She wishes she could see this, that the lights were on and she had a mirror so she could watch him nail her with a degree of passion it feels she's always sought but never before found. It's so ardent, so earnest, that all she can ask, _entreat_ , is, "Don't stop. Please don't stop, Castle."

One of his arms hooks under her knee to angle her toward him, and his other takes her face, his fervent pace never relenting. "Can't stop," he barely manages between sloppy kisses.

The kiss devolves into uncoordinated meetings of lips and tongues, and the moment her fingers dig into him and her head tips back against the wall as her orgasm consumes her, he shouts his unfettered release.

Her eyes more fully adjusted to the dim room, she sees the devoted sobriety on his face as the movement of his hips slows to lazy withdraws and returns, each time rocking against her clit when he buries himself deep in her to wring out one more gasp that her body happily supplies. On his last thrust, he stays in her, his hands caressing her back and sides as they breathe into each other's mouths.

"Wow, that was…" they say in absolute unison, chuckling softly at another discovered notion they express with perfect timing.

"God, Castle," she whispers.

"Yea," is his only reply.

She can see his face enough to note the incredible calm behind his eyes. Such looks are rare on him, but for once he has no smartass commentary, no provocation to offer. She wants to reduce him to this state every day for the rest of her life.

Even thoughtless, though, he looks out for her, carefully moving back and lowering her to the bed like she's fragile, perhaps even venerated. She rolls on her side, pulling his arm over her so he's spooning her. One of his hands settles over her heart, the other low on her tummy, locking her into place. He kisses her shoulder softly, so softly it's barely noticeable. Their bodies are slick with sweat, but neither pulls away to cool off.

The cocoon he forms around her is the safest she's felt since her mother's death. At that realization, she surrenders to the necessity of sleep.

* * *

Next: Probably either a Season 2 Throwback/Off cannon called 'Page 106' or an In-Cannon early season 5 followup with the working title 'Watch and Learn' that comes from a prompt I received. It all depends on which one I finish. I'm always open to suggestions if anyone cares to throw some out there.

Again, thanks so much to all of you!


	3. Inspired

A/N—This is a pretty long chapter, so it took me a little more time to edit and finish up. Hope I caught all of the mistakes. Sorry for the delay.

 **Inspired**

 **Post Unquestioned/After the Storm: Castle's Perspective (after the introduction)**

* * *

"There's no need for you to do all this for us, Kiddo," Martha says, following her son as he gathers up their luggage.

"I want to, Mother," he replies, irritated that she seems to be monitoring him too closely as of late.

"She's right, Dad," Alexis chimes in, "We'll wait and go to Europe when you can come with us. Just close your door. We won't interrupt at all."

"Interrupt?" he scoffs a bit too flamboyantly, adding a forced and nervous chuckle, "what on earth could you possibly be interrupting?"

Alexis and Martha exchange knowing looks. "Your writing," his daughter finally comments, clearly suspicious. "Isn't that what you're planning on doing?"

"Right, yes," he grins, "I was just joking."

"Daddy, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Pumpkin," he answers too eagerly.

"Richard, you seem…flustered," Martha states.

"Because I didn't realize I was being interrogated. You're pretty good, Beckett might be able to get some pointers from you."

"Speaking of Detective Beckett, even if you must stay behind, don't you think other priorities come before writing?" his mother asks.

"Like what?"

"The Detective, perhaps. What about her? How's she holding up, being _suspended_? Must be really hard for her. The poor woman practically eats, sleeps and breathes police work. What on earth is she doing with herself these days, sitting around her apartment moping?"

Castle looks up, a flashing memory hitting him hard. "Oh…I'm sure she'll think of something."

"Gram is right, Dad," Alexis adds. "Don't you think you should help her keep her mind off it? Take her to a show or dinner or maybe a poker game?"

"Don't worry about Beckett," he replies, shepherding them toward the door, and handing the luggage to the doorman waiting in the hall, "and don't worry about me. Have fun." They each kiss a side of his face as he cheerily adds, "Have fun! Love you!"

As the door shuts, Alexis looks at her grandmother and says, "Does he really think we're that clueless?"

* * *

Rick is truly nervous for the evening, and it's strange. There have been plenty of times Kate has made him anxious, but she wouldn't have called any of them 'dates.' Until now. He wants to make this official, to take her out on a real date to show her that the romantic side of him is still alive and well, and he hasn't forgotten that just because he's getting some. But if they have any hope of keeping things quiet, they can't go to any of the places he would like to take in her New York. Any of those options make an appearance on Page Six too likely. And, quietly, he's happy she's afraid to lose him as her working partner. Still he wants that official first date, something real, a chance for him to stare across a table, show her how he thinks she deserves to be treated without trying to hide his adoration.

They seem to have the sexual aspect of their new romance well under control. Admittedly he's failed at his attempts to convince her that her entire suspension should be served in the nude. She's laughed and rolled her eyes, assuming he is joking, but he is definitely serious.

He doesn't only want those private, stolen moments, mostly at her place when he can sneak away from home to be with her. As much as he's not ready for the barrage of questions and the ramifications that will follow once their love is outed, he also doesn't truly want to keep this hidden anymore. After only a few days, part of him is ready to strut around with her on his arm.

He enters her apartment when she opens the door, and she's dashing about, grabbing a few things for her overnight bag. "Are you sure this is safe?" she apprehensively asks.

"Yes, of course," he says, trying to grab her hand, but she avoids being caught. It's been a few hours since she's been in his arms. Far too long for his liking.

"I'm not sure going out is the best idea."

"Would you relax?" he insists.

"If we end up on Page Six and—"

"We will not end up on Page Six. Trust me," he tries to capture her hand again, but she skitters across the floor, refusing to be hindered.

"I just—" Kate begins, pausing because her progress is halted when his arm slings around her waist and drags her to him.

His hands on her shoulders, he says, "Everything is taken care of. Believe me."

The second she smiles at him, it melts his heart, and he can't avoid kissing her. He takes her face in his hands, intending to brush lips and whisk her away. Kate's affection is still a difficult thing for him to walk away from. The spark that ignites them is more accurately described as a hair trigger as of late. Before he even realizes, his arms are around her, his palms grabbing onto her ass and pulling her flush against him. Her hand forces its way between their bodies and fumbles across the front of his pants. He loves the newly exposed lusty side of her that can barely seem to resist him. And he almost forgets their plans altogether as she drags him toward her sofa. "Or we could just stay here," she suggests, her breath tickling his neck and ear and almost winning out.

"Wait, wait, Siren," he challenges. "I told you, I'm taking you on a date. Candles, champagne, romance."

"I don't need all that, Castle," she deflects.

"I know you don't _need_ it. But you definitely deserve it."

Beckett smirks a little, shyness showing itself for only a moment.

"Now come on," he says more animatedly, "let's get out of here. I have a woman to impress."

"Fine. Give me a couple of minutes. I have to get my stuff out of the laundry, should be done now." She quickly offers a peck on his cheek before she disappears.

He walks causally around the space, his eyes pouring over her things. When he told her years earlier that snooping through people's medicine cabinets was part of being a writer, he wasn't joking. He sees the line of books she has with his name emblazoned, and it makes him smile.

As he sees the earliest ones, he runs a finger over each title. He can't help but flash to Beckett in her early adult years, and the thought of her hurrying to the next page or looking forward to an evening with one of his books makes him smile. There's something satisfying about knowing that he was spending time with her before he'd ever laid eyes on her. Young Kate probably took him, or at least his work, into her tub, or maybe she cuddled up in bed on chilly nights with his words. Oddly he feels robbed of those years with her, jealous that he wasn't able to know her at that same time, hear her words in his ears, see her smile, watch her brilliant mind at work.

He looks through many of her books, noting the care she takes with them all, not just his. Her appreciation for words, written and spoken, is part of what intrigued him from the start. He takes _Heat Wave_ from the shelf, noting that at some point she purchased a hard bound copy for her collection. When he turns it over to open it, he sees something her other books do not have. It's subtle, of course, but the corners on the pages of all the Nikki Heat books are subtly bent from repeated turning. He's already planning to tease her a little about this, find out how many times she's poured over these pages, maybe ask if she was half as turned on when she read the sex scenes as he was when he wrote them.

As much as he initially tried to convince her that the scenes were about the character, not her, he knew exactly who he pictured, heard, and felt, when he wrote.

He imagines her in her bed, wondering about her favorite methods of self-pleasure. Does she make the same sounds alone as she does for him? Does she look the same when she orgasms, winding her legs, clawing at sheets, neck tensely craned? When she comes down from that peak, do her sighs, moans and pants become all one unique sound, gradually slowing as her body relaxes again?

They've really only been paired for a few days, and he can, and does, still count the number of times they've been together. He wonders if it's too soon to ask her questions about the things she does alone, maybe get her to agree to let him watch her, even just for a few minutes. The thought of her finger disappearing into her body or strumming over her clit gives him a pleasure jolt, and a slight shudder before he reminds himself not to get carried away before they even leave her apartment. Things with Beckett have a way of getting out of hand.

He gazes toward her bedroom, wondering how much time he has, and exactly how angry she'll be if he opens a few drawers and peeks under the bed to see what sorts of little toys she may have tucked away. He sits at her desk chair, realizing that she probably won't be thrilled to find him rooting through her things. Of course he also doubts she'll be all that surprised. But he doesn't want to irritate her too much before their date, so he decides to limit the night's meddling to her shelves.

As he sits, weighing the potential for discovery against her impending irritation, something else catches his eyes. Behind her "Castle" collection, he sees a hard bound notebook, the kind with a ribbon bookmark attached to the spine. Naturally he prefers to hypothesize about it, and what purpose it serves, rather than to look immediately and spoil the surprise.

It's not a cheap book, expensive as notebooks go, which seems surprising given the fact that she's not a frivolous person, so he believes it must be somewhat important to her. It's blue, a slightly darker shade of cerulean. If it were black, and not so well hidden, it might be an address book, the typical little black book. If it were red…oh the possibilities, maybe a sex or dream journal, something scandalous. Beckett wouldn't write a grocery list in a hardbound red book. But blue…makes him think of subtlety and secrecy. Maybe case notes, personal thoughts or lists.

He realizes he's seen it somewhere before. Her nightstand, he recalls, not tucked behind other books out of sight. She moved it since the first night he spent at her place.

He opens it at the beginning, not at the place held by the bookmark. There aren't dates, so he doesn't think it's a journal. His brow furrows and he leans closer to the pages as certain words become clear. He shakes his head, struggling to confirm, but he knows he sees the words "Rook" and "Heat," written in her hand. He pages through, seeing sessions of writing begin neat and clear, and over time become more hurriedly scratched.

"It can't be," he says aloud, astounded and titillated. This discovery is too good to keep quiet. "This should not be hidden on a shelf."

Kate bursts back into the room, laundry basket tucked under her arm. "What are you doing?" she asks, catching the tail end of the words he spoke to himself.

"Waiting for you," he replies, keeping the book just out of her line of sight.

"Five more minutes," she vows.

Making sure she's not looking, he opens the book again. He quickly thumbs through it a bit more, confirming his suspicions, and then hides the book in his jacket pocket. He's almost giddy with the possibilities.

She comes out minutes later, truly dressed for a date. He's seen her in work clothes, formalwear, undercover clothes of various types, but now she's wearing a short black skirt, sky high pumps, and a thin, sleeveless black top that's just a bit sheer, enough to make him stare to try to find the outlines of her bra. She is breathtaking.

"You are jaw-droppingly gorgeous," he rasps. "My god."

His eyes are devouring her, taking her all in, already planning later activities. They need to get out of here, and he finds that he's trying to walk away, but his eyes can't yet be forced to leave their favorite subject.

He digs in his pants pocket and forces his stare to falter. He is more insistent about driving in their personal life than he has been as her partner/consultant, and she doesn't seem to mind much, but he hands her his keys and says, "You can drive."

"Ferrari?" she asks, growing a bit giddy.

"Why not?" he flirts, pleased when she doesn't seem to note any underlying motive.

"Wait…where are we going? If we're trying to blend in, showing up in a Ferrari is not—"

"Would you please give me some credit," he snaps.

"You're right."

"You're a really careful driver, right? Two hands on the wheel?"

He can see the gears turning behind her eyes. She's suspicious, but she doesn't press him. He thinks that _maybe_ she enjoys this dance with him so much that she's willing to see what it's all about. With her ache-provoking coquettish stare, she closes the gap and nibbles his lower lip, and he very nearly forgets all of his plans. Again.

He's spent years dancing around this relationship with her, and although they're together, there is still a game to be played. It's fun, that's the truth. Their typical parry and thrust, give and take, is still exciting. To be with someone who can match his wit and throw it back only amplifies the draw. Part of what he loves is that tease she still employs. Beckett is exhilarating, as exciting now as before they were together. Maybe more so. As desperately as he wants to give up and have her immediately, absolutely anywhere she'll have him, he knows there will be time for that. Delayed gratification has always been part of their spark.

Her fingernails scratch down his back over his jacket, and he's not sure if he really feels the scrape or if his mind has memorized the way it feels normally when they're naked. Her thigh brushes him enough to make his interest stir, and she says, "You seem tense. Can I help with that?"

Her gaze is teasing, she wants to win. But his hands find her ribs, and he turns her toward the door. Standing behind her, he pulls her in tight and whispers, unflustered, "We have reservations."

"Oh," she replies, and he worries that she feels a sense of rejection.

"Hey," he tips her chin so she can see him over her shoulder. "Believe me, I love everything you're thinking about doing to me right now…but I have been waiting for years for a real date, and I intend to cash in."

There's a quick blush across her cheeks, and she adds, "It _will_ be nice to go out."

"Exactly," he replies, and he grabs her bag and they leave her apartment, walking down the hall so closely their shoulders brush as they step.

They get in his Ferrari, and he sees the delight she tries to keep down. He knows how she appreciates a few of his expensive playthings. He mumbles directions and she takes off, leaving the city in the proper direction.

It's a chilly night, so the top is up on his car, but at least this way they can hear each other's words. After a few moments of small talk, he casually poses, "I've always wondered—"

"—here we go—" she interjects.

Without missing a beat, he ignores her and continues, "—what did you think of those steamy scenes I wrote starring Detective Heat and the roguishly handsome reporter?"

"What do you mean?" she queries with costumed innocence, and he assumes she's trying to buy herself time to decide how to proceed.

"You knew you were the inspiration for the character, probably suspected that I was working out certain, ahem, unresolved issues. What did you think when you read those parts?"

She shrugs, her face pinker, even in the dark. "What was I supposed to think?"

He leans toward the center of the vehicle between them, getting into her space. "Did you like those scenes? Think they were exciting? Intriguing? Alluring?"

"You're a great writer. You don't need me to tell you that."

"I'm not asking from a literary perspective, but I think you know that." Her hesitation affirms that he's on to something. "Did you find those chapters to be intriguing or alluring on a _personal_ level?"

"Of course. Who wouldn't?" she retorts shortly.

"But you weren't just any reader. In some ways you were the subject. The focus of Rook's, and my, desire."

"You feeling insecure about your books?" she tries to deflect. "Is it really your _ego_ you want me to stroke right now?"

But he knows he's poking close to the fire, and she's only trying to redirect. He vows to stay on course and continues, "I'm not feeling insecure at all. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. I've always wondered certain things, and now that we're together, there are questions I feel I can ask that I couldn't ask before."

"Get to the point then. What is it you want to know, really?"

"Fine," he gleams. She's right where he wants her. "Did the sex scenes turn you on? Make you hot and bothered? Make you wet? Maybe provoke certain fantasies about yours truly to the point where—"

"Castle!" she admonishes.

"Hey, I tried subtlety, and you told me to get to the point."

Without looking he knows she's rolling her eyes, putting on a show of exasperation. "Yes, okay. Of course they did. It was hot to read. To imagine." She glances at him and adds, " _Very_ hot."

"And did this reading ever lead to any…after storytime activities?"

"Huh?"

"Masturbation, Beckett. You know, sometimes you make nuance and subtlety very difficult to employ! Did reading something I wrote ever inspire an act of self-love?"

She smirks, shaking her head and biting the inside of her cheek, thinking about her answer. He can tell she's enjoying this banter. "Yes," she practically whispers.

"I'm sorry, was that a 'yes'?"

"Yes, okay? You win. Your writing inspired 'self-love.' More than once," she answers like she's irritated, using his own words. Kate doesn't look irritated, though, despite her efforts. She volleys back, "Any more questions?" in a way that is supposed to deter more probing.

"Several," he replies, ignoring her attempt. "What did you think of during those solo acts? Did you think of Heat and Rook…or me and you? Some of both?"

She groans in protest half-heartedly.

"Fine. I'll go first. When I wrote that first sex scene between those characters, it took days. And I mean _days_. As soon as I had time, I locked myself in my office or my room, wherever I happened to be writing that day. Labored over every word. Every touch. I closed my eyes, imagined you and me…when we stopped trying to prevent the inevitable and let things happen. I envisioned every second, tried to imagine it, the taste of salt and tequila on your skin. That first furtive kiss. Your knees straddling my hips. Finally touching you, kissing you, feeling your naked body against me. I can't even pretend that I thought of Rook and Heat. In fact, afterwards, I realized that I accidentally used your name instead of Nikki's. So it required some revision, but the heart of it was written while I was fantasizing about us."

She glances over with knowing seduction. Her voice emerges with that desirous tone he seems to pull from her now. "Really?"

"Absolutely."

"And did these writing sessions inspire any acts of _self-love_?" using his own words against him again.

"Hell yes," he admits without shame.

"At your desk?"

"Sometimes. Several times, to tell the truth. It was your face I pictured. Your body, the bounce of your hair, the curve of your lips, those long, graceful legs. Your voice."

"Wow," she replies, taking it all in.

"Hey, our turn is coming up. Hop on 495 right here," he cheerily instructs, like the verbal foreplay wasn't making him crazy.

"Turn here?" she throws glares at him like he's lost his mind. "You want me to drive back to the city?"

"Just go with it," he insists. Before she can argue, he continues, "So…back to more important things. Now that I've been forthcoming, what about you? Reading, self-love, your favorite author as inspiration? It's your turn to dish."

"Fine," she cautiously answers. "I had to resolve some built up excitement after reading a few times."

"That's it? That's all you'll tell me?"

"And, maybe…there were a few nights when I went home and read just those parts…touched myself or, you know…opened the _toy box._ "

"I want to see the toy box," his voice says, down a half octave from before, dead serious.

"Maybe. If you're good," she flirts.

"Good? What fun is that?"

They're silent for a bit, and his mind is whirring busily. He reaches into his jacket and takes out the notebook he found earlier. Using the flashlight on his phone, he skims pages for the part he wants. "You're taking notes?" she scoffs.

"I was just reading over something from another writer."

"Someone wants you to review their book, or more of a can-you-pass-this-to-your-publisher kind of deal?"

"Not exactly."

"So some leggy bimbette handed this to you hoping that her physical attributes outweigh her lack of talent?"

"So jealous!" he gloats.

"Am I wrong?"

"She is leggy and her physical attributes are…truly impressive."

"Hah," she victoriously declares.

"But she's not a bimbette. And her writing has definitely piqued my interest." He clears his throat and begins to read, "'His broad hands surrounded her torso as he pulled her roughly onto his lap. She couldn't wait to grind her hips down against him. She wasn't disappointed, feeling his hot, thick erection through his pants pressing up at her. Even with his clothes on, she knew he wasn't going to disappoint her. His touch alternated between adoration and desperate fondling.'" Castle pauses reading to comment, "Not bad, really…for an amateur."

"What is that?" she says, panic rising, quickly looking between him and the road.

"You tell me. You wrote it."

"Where did you get it?"

"Behind my books on your shelf. It looks to me like you decided to elaborate on a few of the scenes I wrote in some very dirty ways. Am I wrong?"

"That's private!"

"Why didn't you tell me? You definitely should have shared this," he silently laughs when she tries to grab the book. "Both hands on the wheel."

"Give that to me. Right. Now."

"Why? I love it. I was thinking maybe we should write one or two of these scenes together…see what happens. I really like this part—"

"Don't read another word."

"I let you read mine."

"You _published_ it. Everyone read it."

"So…was the reality of my…self…as 'hot and thick' as the fantasy? Were you disappointed?"

"I wasn't disappointed. Did I act at all disappointed? And for the record, it's not just a size thing. You're passionate, intense about the slightest thing. You are really _there_ with me, in the moment. That's what makes it great. And your mouth. Oh, and those hands. God, those hands."

Castle chuckles more loudly than he'd expected to. "What about my hands?"

"They're…dexterous. The pads of your fingers are smooth and soft, but with all of that typing they're quick. There were a few times—are you laughing at me? This is why I didn't want to talk about this—"

"No. I love this whole conversation. Keep going. Please."

She sighs loudly, but finally complies. "There were a few times, before, when you'd touch me, subtly, your finger on my hand when you gave me coffee or we passed a file, or you'd hold my hand or touch my knee. Sometimes even that stuff made me a bit…you know."

She looks over, expecting an answer, but he knows he's just staring. He fights to swallow so he can reply. "Sometimes I still can't believe that you're with me. That you let me touch you and kiss you," he pauses and looks at her admiringly, "see you naked."

"I ' _let you'_ touch me? Is that how you see it?" she looks a bit upset, and he doesn't understand why.

"You _don't_ let me?"

"It's not that I _let you_ , Castle. I _want_ you. I'm with you because it's what I want. I need you to know that. I'm not just allowing this thing between us."

His heart is going to burst. He reaches over, placing his hand on her leg, his pinkie brushing the inside of her knee. He adds a few more driving directions, sounding like an aroused GPS, and she tilts her head with disbelief. "Are we going back to your place?"

"Just go with it."

His palm wanders up her thigh, and he hears her cop-voice caution, "I know what you're doing."

He doesn't answer though, at least not verbally, as his fingers walk in steps along her leg. He feels the tenseness from her, and knows that she's torn. He waits until she stops at a traffic light, after all, he doesn't want her to actually wreck the vehicle, and he knows she won't allow anything truly dangerous. His eyes on her silhouette, he sees the way she's breathing, lips parted, each exhalation rushing over that puffy lower lip that he's dying to suck.

Before the light can change, his hand moves higher, almost to the spot he's determined to reach, and he waits for her to smack him away. Instead he watches as she turns to look at him, and her eyes close slightly when he finally brushes contact against her warm center. There's a small moan that he might have missed, but he knows her too well, so he was waiting for it. Her legs actually fall apart just slightly, enough for him to note the sliver of fabric that separates his hand from her naked sex. Her mouth opens just a little more, the thought-numbing feelings of arousal clouding her judgement. He looks up at the lights on the cross street, seeing them turn yellow and knowing that in a moment she'll be expected to drive again. He moves his hand back to the relative safety of her knee and he whispers, "Get us home."

She appears frustrated with the delay, and her brows furrow, but she bobs her head, bringing her knees closer together, and presses the accelerator when she must.

The remainder of the trip is made in silence. It's only a few blocks that take an eternity to traverse even though she's deftly navigating the traffic. He had the upper hand, at least for a moment, feeling he was leaving her hot and wanting. But now he is left to stare at her pouty, full lips, and an expanse of thigh bared from the way he just touched her. He is probably more tortured than she.

She zips through the secure garage where he parks, bringing the car to an abrupt halt, and before he knows what's happening she flips over onto his lap. Her nails scrape up the back off his scalp, spreading prickles over his skin immediately. In the same move her mouth is on his, tongue savoring him. The woman knows how to kiss. She only stops when she hears another vehicle.

He finds that he's not quite sitting on the seat beneath him, half lifted up to her, his hands roaming broad paths over her back and legs. Summoning his resistance, he turns her wrist to look at her watch, and next to her lips he says, "We're going to be late."

He opens his door, carefully lifting her out so she's standing next to him while he exits. The way she shimmies her skirt back down her legs and straightens her top reminds him of the fun they just had, and things to come. He offers his arm and she accepts while he escorts her back to his apartment.

He can sense she's about to object again, thinking this is all a ploy to get her straight to bed after a pointless run around. When he opens the door, her jaw drops. His place is barely recognizable. "How did you do this?" she asks, spinning around the room recently transformed into a space that looks like a fine dining establishment, perhaps something European, right there in his apartment. There's a small table with crisp, white linens, flickering candles, and a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. The room is dark but stars are projected on the ceiling. Screens are placed around the room that make it look like they're surrounded by a cobblestone street and large decorative fountain, delivering all of the charm of a small, foreign town after dark. "This? This is why we took that drive? So someone could set this up?"

"It's not as good as the real thing," he admits, standing behind her and sliding his arm around her waist as his chin rests on her shoulder. His lips move against her neck as he adds, "There are so many places I want to take you, but for now—"

"No one has ever taken me on a date like this."

"Well hopefully someone, namely me, will be taking you on a lot of dates that will make this one look like cheap theatrics."

"I don't think so."

She is moved, and he feels himself blushing because he wants so badly to impress her, to make her feel half as adored as she actually is. Pulling her chair out for her, he kisses her cheek once she's seated and circles to his own spot at the table. There are a few dishes beneath silvery covers waiting for them to share. He uncovers them with a flourish and waits for her to try.

At first he sees the candle light flickering in her eyes, but as he eats, he notes that her gaze has fallen and she's pushing food around the plate with her fork. Covering her hand with his, he asks, "You don't like it? We can order something else."

"I love it," she quickly answers.

"Then what's the problem? You don't look like you're loving this."

"You are so rich."

"I do alright. Is that a problem?"

"No. It's just…I can't do things like this for you. I can't buy you trips to Europe or get you expensive gifts. I won't be able to keep up. I'll never be able to do the things for you that you do for me."

"I don't want you to do the same things for me," he swiftly argues. "I've been wining and dining myself for years, and it's really pretty boring. Now I want to wine and dine with you."

"Still—"

Sensing her sadness and hating it, he tries to destroy her doubt. "Do you know the best gift you've ever given me? My absolute favorite, without a doubt?"

"I'm guessing this has something to do with that position we tried last night," she playfully smiles, her worry still casting shadows.

"Actually," he replies as his own gaze falls, "it isn't a sexual thing at all. Don't get me wrong, each and every sexual thing we've done is a personal favorite of mine, but it's not the best thing you've ever given me."

She drops her fork and tilts her head, giving him the entirety of her attention, seeking answers.

He clears his throat, hating the rise of nerves he still feels every time he makes himself vulnerable with her. "Do you remember the day Raglan called you a couple of years ago?"

"Hard to forget."

"I'm sure. Well you showed up at my door, so lost and confused. You came to me. When things went wrong, you found me. I'm not sure if you asked Esposito or Ryan first, maybe I wasn't your first choice, but I was pretty high on the list."

"You were my first choice. I hung up, and I went straight to you," she admits.

He smiles, so warmly that he knows she feels it, and continues. "The best part, the greatest gift you've given me, was when Raglan reminded you 'no cops' were invited, and do you remember what you said?"

"He's not a cop."

"And after that?"

"I told him…you are someone I trust."

"Exactly. That was the best thing you've ever given me. Because I know how hard trust is for you, how difficult that whole situation was and is. And you said it without a heartbeat, like it was this huge, unavoidable, incontestable truth. Something so big, so difficult in your life, and you wanted me by your side. There isn't a thing money can buy that would mean more to me."

She slowly raises from her chair and leans between the candles, placing a delicate kiss to his lips that sends flutters out from the contact point.

Then they pick at the rest of a wonderful meal. She's almost always touching him somewhere. Her ankle crosses his beneath the table, and although the crackle of sexual tension is just below the surface, they share genuine conversation. She often tells him, 'You're the writer,' but he loves her words, her vocabulary, her finely honed skills at knowing what to say and how to say it. She doesn't have his need for eloquence, but she knows how to make a point in just the right way. It makes him think of her notebook again, and he's beyond curious to see how many pages she's written, if any of them were about anyone else, and exactly how tawdry the tales become. Still this is the date he's wanted for so long, and he doesn't want her to think his only interests are carnal.

He loves the subtle touches and shared thoughts, too. So much. She finishes her glass of champagne and excuses herself to the restroom. As soon as he sees she's gone, he retrieves the notebook from his pocket.

Tilting the book toward the candlelight, he reads as much as he can of one particular story.

The sound of Kate clearing her throat makes him look up, and he sees that the shirt she was wearing is now unbuttoned almost to the bottom, revealing the type of slinky lingerie that has pervaded his dreams. "Wow," is the only word he speaks.

"Give me that garbage," she demands, holding out her hand.

"It isn't garbage. Not at all. I mean, it needs some polishing here and there, maybe a professional's touch in certain places, but it's definitely working for me."

"Castle," she groans unhappily.

"I'm serious. Entirely serious. Especially…" he pauses, thumbing through pages, "this one about Nikki helping Rook finish up his article."

She pinches her lips between her teeth without speaking.

"You could read it to me," he suggests, but when she scowls, he reroutes, "or…less reading, more engaging. I'm more than willing to be your fantasy plaything." His eyebrows waggle as he shows her the page he's currently studying.

"I'll bet," she dryly replies.

"Come here," he whispers, standing and tossing his cloth napkin onto the table and finishing the last drop of champagne in his glass. He carefully tucks the book back in his jacket before he takes her hand, leading her through the screens, around the room, and into his office. It makes him flash back to the first night she brought him to his room and pinned his hands to the ground while she rode him. He knows he'll probably fantasize about that for the rest of his life.

With her shirt split so low that he can see her lingerie, the way she looks is almost enough to let him forget his plans, but he realizes she looks like Kate dressed up as Nikki, the two truly one right before his eyes. It's almost too perfect.

He drapes his jacket over the back of his chair and sits down at his desk, his face lit by his laptop as soon as he opens it. He's not going to force her to play along, but damn he hopes she decides to on her own.

She walks closer, one foot stepping slightly in front of the other as she balances on her skyscraper pumps. "Thanks for your help on that case," she says, her voice soft and sultry, and he realizes she knows exactly which story he was referring to.

"Any time."

She starts to argue, even though this is just for fun, "I could have solved it on my own, but—"

She pauses as he scowls and asks with irritation, "You're going to argue that right now? You know this isn't real, right?"

Bobbing her head, she repeats her earlier statement, but without the previous qualification. "Thanks for your help on that case." She wrinkles her nose, but adds, "I couldn't have done it without you."

He grins, knowing that she's humoring him, but it feels really good anyway.

But even as he tries to role play, it's the two of them just the same, and his eyes are raking over her body, already envisioning his next steps.

"You have plans tonight?" she asks.

"Finishing up my article. I have a deadline," he barely replies, repeating a line on the same page of the book that he flashed at her only a moment ago, trying to remember that he's talked her into this little scenario. She leans on the desk just next to where he sits in front of his computer. When he tries not to stare at her legs, her breasts ensnare him, when he moves from there, he fixates on her mouth. Resistance is futile.

She clears her throat, giggling softly. "Too bad. I wanted to thank you. For the case. For being there for me no matter what," she answers. "Thought maybe I could buy you a drink."

He's not even sure if she's role playing or not anymore but his mind is swirling just the same. Whether it's Beckett, or Beckett channeling Nikki Heat, it's hot as fuck. He slides his chair away from the desk only a little, his hand moving to her hip and gliding her across the desk until she's directly in front of him between his knees.

"Not much in the mood for a drink," he replies. "But that doesn't mean I want you to leave."

His stare grows harsh, he can feel it, knowing that his draw to her is one of the few things that can make him stonily solemn. His eyes hanging on hers, he reaches for the two buttons still closed at the bottom of her shirt and pops them open. His fingers slide over the lacy black undergarment she rocks, his pinkies tracing the top of the skirt. He slips the shirt from her shoulders, watching its slow fall down her arms.

Shifting to the front of the chair, he accepts the invitation of her body. His mouth latches on a still covered breast, teeth scraping over the cloth and finding a rigid nipple to play with. Her hands brace on the desk, an inviting posture that pushes her chest slightly forward.

Beneath the actual physical excitement of the moment is the fact that this scenario comes from her mind. This is what she wrote, Rook pleasing Nikki or Castle pleasing Beckett, either way, while she perches herself on his desk. Not only is his beautiful muse gazing down softly at him while he touches her, but he knows, he's read, that this is something she's fantasized about, pondered, probably gotten off to before. This whole thing is such an incredible turn on. He lifts a little more from the chair, seeking a better vantage point, and finds his balls feel like thousand pound weights against him.

He brings her feet to the back of his chair, her knees parting before him. He kisses up her leg, his hand firmly massaging her calf. The tendon at the inner side by her knees seems especially ticklish, so his fingers linger there for a moment while he kisses more hungrily up her thigh. He nibbles up the lean expanse, the muscles so tight and covered in ridiculously smooth, warm skin. He bites down, listening to her cry out the most erotic sound on the planet (and, no, he isn't being hyperbolic). He sucks at the spot, knowing very well that he is marking her. So far, she doesn't protest.

It isn't like the thought hasn't occurred to him before, after all, he finds it almost impossible not to latch onto her neck when they're fucking, to find that spot back near her ear and right against her jaw that makes her go wild. But he never imagined Beckett was the type of woman who liked to be marked by anyone. That is, he never imagined it until he read her words. He guesses that as long as he keeps such things hidden by clothes, she may not mind.

He's absolutely obsessed with getting that book open, to read more, to find out what else she likes so he can be her best, so she can be ruined for others as he is. Judging by her reactions, finding that book was the sexual insight equivalent of winning the lottery. He wonders what other secrets she keeps hidden behind the curtain, what other scenarios she may want to play out and enjoy with him. She's always teased him about her more adventurous side. Those hints she's given over the years that she enjoys sex that strays beyond vanilla feel powerfully true.

Her body smells like cherries, and he wonders if she chose that body wash just to drive him wild, to remind him of how long he's desired her. He moves his other hand to her center, pressing his palm over her sex, giving her a little nudge to balance the other sensations. She wiggles to get the skirt up higher over her hips, and she's shameless in her attempt to chase her pleasure. Kate has never been a shrinking violet, and he will never deny that it's part of the allure.

Standing abruptly, his hands grab her ass and roughly pull her forward to his pelvis. It makes him somehow harder than hard when she wraps her legs around him, grinding against the front of his pants. He knows her wetness is rubbing on him, leaving the evidence on his charcoal trousers.

She wrests control for a moment, grabbing his balls in one hand and gruffly palming his covered dick with the other. She's hard to deny, especially when she's so insistent. Noting the way she's going for his zipper, he grabs her hands and presses them flat to the desk beneath his. He curls her fingers over the edge of the desk, not sure if she'll obey, but he lets go. Reaching for the scissors in his drawer, he cuts the black straps that support the lacy bra and bodice, and yanks down most of what covers her. Her tits are at full attention, she's pressing them toward him, his drive to suck, to latch on, feels omnipresent, so he caves to his whim, not looking at her face because he's pretty sure she's pissed that he ruined the gorgeous piece she wore just to entice him. But he doesn't want to deal with that right now, or apologize, he wants her to feel his desire, his longing, the desperation he feels to undress her and get lost in her body.

He tries to moderate his fervor, but the sounds, the tiny cries, sharp moans, and pants coming from her are so heavy they weigh on him. He's spent years being cautious, and it would be difficult to ignore all of that and show her the primal passion that simmers beneath if he wasn't so spellbound by her. My god, he is absolutely consumed by those basic drives and desires.

His clothed sex is against hers, and the way they're moving makes him think he may actually come while still dressed. Of course he can't have that, so he sits back down, pulling her long legs over his shoulders. The backs of her heels are against his shirt, and he realizes she never bothered to kick off her shoes. This woman is so damn sexy, so much hotter than anything he's imagined, and it feels like every time she's with him, she reminds him he _still_ can't fully comprehend how good she is.

He wonders, fleetingly, if she feels as awed by him. For once, he feels a bit outmatched in the bedroom. If her current actions, her knuckles bright white hanging onto the desk, her heels digging against his back, or the incredibly pleasured look on her face are any indication, he feels pretty confident. Still he wonders.

The panties are part of the lingerie, so he can't just remove them, so he pulls the offending cover to the side, finally exposing her to his touch. When her body isn't as open to him as he'd like, he tears the lace away and buries his face between her legs. The only word to describe the taste of her is divine. She smells like sex to him, only her. He already loves how aroused she gets for him. Her abundant juices coat his tongue, lips and chin.

Her delicate folds are puffy and swollen with arousal, her clit jutting forward, inviting him to explore. He doesn't focus too intently at first because he knows how quickly he can end the wait for her. In fact, although they haven't been together long, he's certain he can push her over in just seconds, but he loves licking her pussy, and doesn't really feel the need to hurry it along. He wants her to feel the delicious torment, the continued delay and mounting desire, and wants it for himself, too.

He wants to be the musician who knows exactly how to play her. He can't even begin to describe the way her silky flesh feels against his mouth. There is no reason this should be as overwhelmingly fantastic as it is for him, but against logic, it is _that_ good, jolts of expectation dancing along his nerve endings.

He closes his lips around her clit and slides along it, sucking while his tongue laps. She begins to squirm, really squirm, and he knows she's no longer controlling any of this. This is one of his favorite parts, the complete lack of coordination as sex tips from the realm of feeling good to absolutely orgasmic. Once she gets to this point she won't stop him, in fact, she'd probably shoot him if he did.

She drops back on her elbows with a jerk, still holding him to her with her heels, trapping him against her body. Her legs wind and try to close as it all becomes too much, but his body won't allow her to shut him out yet. He slows the pace of his attentions because he doesn't want her to pull away, he wants to stay with her during her orgasm, to feel the quakes he's caused and make them last. He knows her insides are twitching, and he wishes he could feel it, sense the rhythm of her bliss from inside her.

He stands while she's limp before him, his fingers stretching out her climax, and with his other hand, he quickly opens his pants. He's scrambling, yearning and craving, because he wants to feel her clench down on him before it's over. Without delay he hooks his elbows under her knees and drags her ass to the edge of his desk. Sliding into her, he doesn't deny that the animalistic groan that emerges is his. She makes a squeaking sound that tells him he's hitting her front wall like he wants to, making her feel the things he wants to make her feel.

Thank god he isn't too late, because he wants to be right here more than he could ever describe. She doesn't seem to come down after her last peak, and he is pretty sure he can wring another orgasm from her. He touches her clit with his thumb, sliding it through the plentiful wetness, careful not to make it too intense. She clamps down so tightly he isn't sure he can move. He's finally here, in his own heaven, buried within her. Nothing in the world feels as good as this does.

When she says, "Stop," he's certain he's dreaming. But she repeats it again.

"Hunh? Wait. What?" he asks, sounding like some form of life that doesn't have the capacity for meaningful communication.

"Pull out," she orders.

It hurts him to think of leaving, but he does so, wondering what in the hell he did wrong. Trying to ease his unhappiness, she smiles sweetly, winks, and whispers, "That was incredible. You are so, so incredible."

"Good," he nods. Speaking with rapid fire words, he adds, "So what's wrong? Is this because I cut your clothes? I promise I'll replace—"

"It's not about that."

"Then—"

"Because after that, I owe you." Her smile turns to a grin, and she stands, patting the desk for him to take her spot.

When he doesn't immediately, she nearly pushes him where she wants him. Standing between his legs, trapping his hard on between them, she smashes her body to his. She doesn't seem to mind tasting herself on him, because the kiss lasts and lingers. She pushes his pants down to the floor, and toes off his shoes. He feels so exposed. He's so hard and purple, the delay in gratification stretching to the point of too long delayed.

Kate whispers in her seductress voice, "Going down on me turns you on this much?"

He nods, eyes heavy and lips gapped, trying to think of a way to describe how badly he needs her.

She cradles his sac, weighing and gently rolling, it feels good, almost too good, but he's so ready for more that it's hurting his…well, his _everything_. Biological urges thunder through him, muting thought, blinding everything except the space they take up and the narrow distance between them. When her fingers finally encircle his shaft, he immediately jerks into her grasp, unable to control the thrust of his hips.

"Ah, ah," she cautions, relaxing her grip. "You didn't finish that story I wrote, did you?"

"I didn't have the chance."

Just running her fingers so lightly over his length, the feeling is almost worse than no contact at all. Now it's his knuckles that are white as he grips the edge of the desk and awaits some follow-through. "So you don't know the ending," she wonders.

"You could tell me…or maybe just show me," his words are a plea.

She shrugs, and, tightening her hand slightly, she whispers, "You're still wet from being inside me."

He looks brain dead, probably because he is. Beckett talking dirty is definitely on his top ten desires list. He doesn't have the capacity for role play any longer.

"Slippery. Makes it so easy to pump my hand over you," she purrs. "Have I told you how much I love your cock?"

This is too good. He looks down, watching her hand stroking him. He's grateful for the length and strength of her fingers and the way they wrap around him.

"No wonder you're so smug," she adds, surrounding his sex with both hands and increasing the pressure. "I used to wonder if you were all talk, but you definitely aren't. Long enough to fill me up, so nice and thick that you hit all the right places. Best of all…you always seem to know _exactly_ what to do to get me off. You know how to move, how to fuck, how to lick, how to touch me in the right places at the right times. You're patient, thorough. It's probably good I'm suspended right now, because no matter what I'm doing, I can't stop thinking about you and me, like this."

Rick is completely aware that he's under her control, and that he stopped breathing several seconds ago. Like she has so many times before, she defies and supersedes every expectation. When he finally breathes again, it's stuttered and harsh, his abs twitching because they've been so long engaged. He can't hide from her watchful eye anymore. He swallows hard, hoping he can still form words. He looks over her body, her wrecked lace slinky outfit that shows more of her than it covers, and as much as he thinks, "You're all I can think about, too," the words don't present.

Her lips come closer to his chest, and she orders, "Unbutton your shirt."

His hands move to his buttons, shaky and hurried, trying like hell to remember how to shove a button through its hole. As soon as his chest is exposed, he feels her nibble at his collar bone, placing little bites down his torso like he did to her legs. He knows he, too, is being marked, and even if she isn't moving as fast as he needs, it feels so good.

As she lowers her body, he silently begs for more. She sucks the skin low on his abdomen near the top of his leg, so close to where he wants her, and the slight sharpness of that in a sea of urgency just makes everything so much more vibrant and focused. He tries to think of what to say, finally mumbling pathetically, "Apples," because he's sure the torment needs to stop and she needs to let him get off.

Beckett chuckles, and for a second he isn't sure she really gets the urgency. Apparently she understands, though, because she moves toward his erection, her tongue lapping at the tip before she swoops her lips down over him. Taking most of him into her mouth in the first attempt, her hands tightly conform around all that remains so that every inch is covered by her.

She moans over him, her lips, throat and tongue all vibrating from the sound. Kate doesn't seem interested in dragging this out any longer, thank god. She speeds up, swallowing as much of his length as she can each time. She switches up the pace, but he can feel the way she's gradually moving faster. He looks down, sees her before him, and she doesn't look like this is some chore she's performing for his benefit. He swears it looks like she actually likes it, that maybe holding his most intimate self in her mouth is actually arousing for her, too.

She opens her eyes and stares right at him for just a second before she takes a few sweeps of her tongue all over, tracing the veins and ridges before she takes him in yet again. The look in her eyes is all but the final straw.

"Beckett," he warns roughly, trying to caution her that the inevitable end is almost near, but she only increases her efforts instead of backing away.

At this point, he can't even tell exactly what she's doing anymore, his whole existence is the sensation of absolute perfection. His sighs are loud enough the neighbors may complain. He tries one more time, fighting instinct to use his words to say her name again because as much as he's dying to come in her mouth, he won't unless she wants him to. His fingers squeeze her shoulders, trying to avoid grabbing her head, but he has to hold onto her.

She doesn't stop, doesn't pull away, instead she reaches one hand around him, digging her fingertips into his ass cheek and pulling him forward so his hips are rocking as he's sliding in and out of her mouth, and the last of his resolve vanishes as he pours his desire into her. She's tied him into knots, and when relief finally hits, his torso stretches as his hands grasp onto her for dear life before he bows forward in spent gratitude.

He has no idea how loud he just was. He doesn't note the residual ache from the tension in his muscles that was so real it's as if electricity actually coursed through him, but he'll probably feel it tomorrow. He crumbles against her shoulder when she stands, and he's grateful to have her to lean against since he's nearly lifeless.

He hears Kate giggle. "Ya'okay, Castle?"

All he offers is a weak but stupidly happy grin.

"Stay still," she worriedly shouts, reaching over to the edge of his desk where his laptop is precariously close to the edge. "Sorry about your desk." She returns to her spot standing between his legs, and drapes her wrists over his shoulders. "Maybe next time you'll think twice before snooping," she lightheartedly warns.

His tongue feels fat and uncoordinated, like he's been on a three-day bender, but his synapses start firing again, and speech returns. "You actually think what just happened was a _deterrent_?" he finally chuckles and whispers against her ear, "You underestimate your talents. I think I should hire you in a sexual consultant capacity for the next few books."

"Sexual consultant?" she asks as his teeth tug her earlobe.

"We'll need hours of research, maybe try out a few things until we find the exact scenario… I think together—"

"Together we wouldn't make it through a single paragraph with our clothes on."

"Or…we could just accept the inevitability, start off naked. Get through a sentence or two, take a luvin' break, write a little more…"

She gazes down at her destroyed lingerie, her body largely exposed, but clothes still hanging from her in places. "I'm going to need a wardrobe budget…a big one," she teases.

"I'll be happy to accommodate your entire list of demands," he replies, pulling her tightly into his embrace and nuzzling his nose against her neck.

He reaches for his jacket so he can retrieve her notebook, and holds it up behind her to skim for more ideas. Knowing exactly what he is doing, she reaches over her shoulder, takes the book away from him and silently scolds.

He simply shrugs, "Can't put it down. I'm your biggest fan."


	4. Touch

**A/N-I'm sorry I've been gone. Here's a smutty (and very mildly kinky) chapter of this in-canon collection. This is pretty much just smut with little substance. Hope it can still be enjoyed even if I'm a cruddy updater.**

 **Working on the update to my non-canon "Hypotheticals" now.**

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Touch**

Castle enters Beckett's apartment that evening as scheduled, finding the lights out and candles lit around the space. When she told him earlier that she made plans for them later in the evening, he figured they were going out. Of course he likes whatever this is so much more.

Somehow, and he truly has no idea how, she appears behind him. Guiding his wrists behind his back, she whispers in his ear, "Do as I say, and everyone will come through this just fine."

He actually chuckles at her word choice, knowing her well enough to know that she probably thought about her opening line for a while. He wonders if she knows his laughter is more driven by excitement than amusement. She still makes him a bit nervous, even though he refuses to let on.

"Is this a joke to you?" she asks, coldly.

For a moment he sobers, uncertain how to interpret her tone. "No," he replies. Her handcuffs create that dull clanking sound behind him, and he tries desperately to hide his glee over the prospects presented. The first clasp surrounds one of his wrists, and he can feel the parts of the metal that are warmer because they'd been clasped in her fingers and the parts that were untouched and therefore cooler.

Her hand presses firmly between his shoulder blades, shoving him into the room like she would a criminal who'd pushed her too far.

"What did I do, Detective?" he inquires impishly.

"You never listen, Castle, and I'm tired of it. I'm tired of you doing _whatever_ you want, _whenever_ you want. That ends now." Beckett kicks out a chair at her dining table, hooking one of the metal legs with her foot to turn it. "Sit down," she orders, as she circles behind the chair and pushes his shoulders down until he's seated.

After a moment of maneuvering, she's secured his other wrist as well. He moves his hands to test the restrictions, figuring out quickly that the chain of the cuffs was threaded through the back of the chair. Not only are his wrists bound to each other, but he is attached to the chair beneath him. He maintains his composure, not wanting to appear too affected, but this is definitely one of the hottest things that's ever happened to him, and he suspects she hasn't even gotten started yet.

She comes back around to the front of him, taking a separate chair and positioning it directly before him a few feet away. She doesn't sit just yet. She's wearing work clothes, sort of. She has a dress coat on, opened at the front to reveal a white button down blouse. It would seem rather ordinary, but the shirt has one less button done up than she'd normally have for work. The woman understands the time and place for nuance and subtlety. And the time to tie a man down and drive him wild.

Beneath the white shirt, he can pick out black lace. He loves the way the undergarment lifts her breasts like an offering, although he knows all too well her body doesn't require any enhancement. He's trying to figure out exactly what she's wearing under there, but in the dim light he can't tell if the black lace continues down her abdomen or not. _Just as well_ , he thinks… _more mysteries to unravel later._

Beckett gets impatient. After only a few weeks of firsthand research into the more, ahem, intimate side of Kate, he knows this far too well. He loves it. He has teased her that he thinks all of those years of waiting and restraint have made her eager, worn her patience to a bare thread. So really, he's convinced she'll tease him for a second or two before she can't take it any longer and she'll be straddling the chair and riding him. He can see the storyboard in his mind already, is convinced that he knows all of the plot points and the ending. Even still, he can't fucking wait. He's determined to enjoy the foreplay while it lasts, hoping that executing this scene is as fun for her as it is for him.

They are, in so many things, yin and yang. She seemed more restrained _before_ they were together, while he struggled. Now that they're together, he's often the more patient one, the one who's able to make the lead-up last. He's also accustomed to indulging in the finer things in life, as his lifestyle has been far from austere for quite some time. He thinks of how many times he's said, _It's not a race…_ to her in just the past few weeks. He hasn't yet told her, but her urgency for him is one of his favorite things about this new part of their relationship.

Standing in front of him, her back to him, he notices her stilettos, lofty even for her, for the first time. At least he thinks. Or maybe it's an optical illusion created by the skirt she's wearing that ends well above the knee. Her legs simply do not end. She would never wear that to work unless she was undercover. Shrugging out of her jacket, she drapes it over the back of her chair. She bends to adjust things as if the position of the chair is critical, giving him a perfect view of her ass. The skirt is slung tight, filled by her firm cheeks, and the sight takes him back to so many times he stared longingly, before he knew what it was like to be with her.

He's getting hard without scarcely a touch from her, it's all anticipation, desire that has yet to temper from experience. She'll have the satisfaction of knowing exactly how much he's enjoying this.

She takes a seat in her own chair, and pauses. Her new position bares most of her thigh. Without invitation, memories of pulling those legs around his body surge through him. She casually bounces her leg, kicking her foot subtly, and he's transfixed.

His mouth is agape, a fact he knows because he needs a drink. Realizing that he's been gawking at her like his stare could actually touch her, he regains himself. He shrugs, dragging his eyes to hers. "An interrogation, perhaps?" he asks.

She doesn't reply at first, not a word, only a smile threatening on her lips. Finally when she speaks, she says, "Not exactly. It's time to remind you of your place, Mr. Castle."

"I'd love to be put in…" he stops, his stare tracing her thighs as high as he can, and continues with suggestion dripping from his tone, " _my place_."

Her face is stoic, too stoic, so he knows it's purposeful. He feels smug with the knowledge that he's able to get to her even while strapped down feet away.

"You'll learn to listen, Castle," she demands. "Unless you want to sit there all night…hard and aching for me…while I get myself off?"

Rick studies her, searching for signs of just how serious she is about this plan. She wouldn't do that, right? She wouldn't get off and leave him there to watch idly. Then he wonders, immediately, if that wouldn't be fun. He likes it, in principle. He likes the _idea_ of watching her. But not forever. He'd like to help out, touch her, kiss her, be there when she decides she's had enough and she needs him to make her come _hard_ on him.

Based on her unfaltering stare, he considers the possibility that maybe she really does want to follow it through. He has tricks though, ways to get to her, and he intends to use them. He wagers with the universe that there's no way she can resist having him, fully mobile and unrestrained, once things heat up. He doesn't tell her about that bet for fear that she'll decide to prove him wrong.

Beckett uncrosses her legs and sets both feet on the floor. Although her feet are a few inches apart, her legs are angled so her knees are close together, and he can't see much. Her stare on him, she patiently, one-by-one, opens the buttons on her shirt, standing again to undo the last two bottom buttons. The bra is part of a lingerie set, he realizes, and he's positive he hasn't seen this in her closet before. And he's definitely searched.

"Just got this," she rasps. "What do you think?"

"Uhhh," he realizes he's groaning on too long, and continues, "Nice…what I can see, that is. Difficult to tell from here by candlelight."

She nods, slowly, "You want to see better?"

"Yes." With uncharacteristic obedience, he adds a polite, "Please."

She takes slow strides, one foot slightly crossing in front of the other with each step.

"Maybe just a bit closer?" he requests, although she's only an inch or two away from his knees at this point.

Coming forward, her one leg wedging between his knees, she asks, "Better?"

"Much," he whispers, unwittingly pressing one leg against hers to feel the warmth.

He leans forward, pushing her pure white shirt apart with his face to see her breasts encased in that sinfully hot outfit. A few times, out of instinct and habit, he's tried to touch her with his hands and remembered the situation. She is good, so good, at numbing the thinking side of his brain. So he moves his mouth against the outer side of her breast to pull back her clothing even more. When his nose nudges over her nipple, he feels the rigidness, and again acting on the things he's learned, his mouth immediately surrounds the peak. It's a few seconds, at most, and he wastes no time. The lace is a little rough in his mouth, the deliciously soft but teeny circles of peeking skin finding his tongue. He notes a very slight buckling in her knees before she pulls away, punishing him with her absence. "I didn't say you could touch."

"I'm only human," he confesses, "and I couldn't resist."

Her expression attempts disapproval. She nods, looking away, then goes to the place where her eyes had been. When she returns with a glass, he raises an eyebrow. "You look thirsty," she notes, "and I can't have you getting dehydrated before I'm done with you."

He suppresses the urge to tell her she's so fucking sexy, wonders if she gets tired of hearing it. Finding creative ways to say things should be one the advantages of being with him, but some things have to be said directly, using the fewest and most direct words possible. Although he has found other ways of professing the ways she awes him, it all too often comes back to _'You're so fucking sexy.'_

She brings the drink to his lips, the sound of ice ting-ting-ing against the glass. When it touches his lips, he realizes the glass, too, must have been frozen. It's so very cold, between the vessel and the ice and chilled whiskey. After a few sips, she removes the glass and steps over his legs, settling in his lap.

She doesn't lower fully, although her tummy is against his chest, his eyes scouring everything before him and still yearning for more. She offers him her breast again, bringing her body close to his lips. She's covered still, but he'll take what he can get. He realizes as his cooled lips hit her warm skin that she hadn't provided the drink for his thirst, but rather for her pleasure. As her arms rest on his shoulders and circle his head, he knows she's still holding the glass as he hears the ice clinking behind him. Her pleasure rises and her grip on him tightens, the cold glass meeting the nape of his neck and forcing a gasping noise from his throat.

The warmth of her body is too far from his groin. As he plucks at her nipple with his lips, he tries to rise higher in the chair to feel her against him. She pushes his shoulders until he's completely seated and she orders, "Sit down," roughly.

He can see the redness in her lips and focused nature of her eyes. She's seriously hot for him, he knows it. And he's sure she doesn't doubt for a heartbeat that he's desperate for her.

"You just can't listen, can you?" she disciplines. "I give you a little, and you take more."

Her ire reminds him of their early cases, the irritation and frustration he provoked in her nearly every time they met; she'd order and she'd complain, but he typically did as he pleased. Even in those days, he was certain they'd be together one day. Of course he was also certain it would never happen. The contradictions of feeling she caused in such a normally confident man were epic.

She steps away, taking a swig from the hyper-chilled glass, and immediately he thinks he knows what is to come. He can already feel those full lips on his cock, and he's licking his own lips in anticipation as he remembers the feeling of her talented mouth and deft tongue. Maybe he's finally going to enjoy the icy trick she's hinted about. He wants that, becomes fixed on that, and slumps down in the chair so she can unzip his pants.

If she asks him to plead for this, he's already decided he will gladly grant her wishes.

"Seriously?" Her tone is authoritative and firm, nearly aghast at his presumptuousness. "You think I'm going to suck you off? You actually think I'll drop to my knees, slide my tongue over your cock, lick it and kiss it before I wrap my lips around you and suck...suck so long, and tight, and so slowly you think you'll pass out if I don't give you more?"

"Uhhh…" he begins, but his brain is gone, his whole self too focused on the fantasy that had seemed so near only a second ago.

"Why should I reward you for disobeying?" she questions like an angry teacher.

Why does she have to be so hot? It's sometimes unfair.

"Wait," he tries to laugh when he realizes a response is needed, "What? I—I didn't say that. I didn't say anything."

"There's this thing you do, a tell," she dismissively answers, "whenever you think I'm going to…"

"What tell?"

"This…no, wait a second, I'm _not_ answering your questions. You don't get to ask the questions right now, Mr. Castle."

She returns to her chair, leaving him there full of need. Her shirt, that pure white shirt, is fully apart, barely on her shoulders anymore. When she sits, she shimmies the skirt just a little higher before she places the glass on the floor below her hanging arm. Her fingers walk up her thigh, climbing higher. Her hand moves under her skirt, what little there is of it.

He knows the moment she makes contact with her sex. Her eyes close and her lips part as she softly pants. Her teeth surround her bottom lip as she softly moans and murmurs, so quietly it's hard to hear, "Ohhh."

It should be hot, should completely get him off. It's beautiful, and brazen, unabashedly erotic and raw, and it does get him off, in a way...but he's jealous as hell, so envious that it hurts.

Contradictions. Again.

He doesn't want to feel this way, green with envy; he wants to enjoy the show. Beckett is adventurous, an unashamedly a sexual being, and he loves that about her. But the shadow from the skirt in the dim room and the way her hand is positioned prevents him from seeing anything. He wants to be the one touching her pussy, feeling that first slick and slippery contact that only grows slicker, and hotter, and just plain better as she lets him in. Not only is he deprived of the feeling of her, but he can't really see either. It's unfair, and he's terribly envious. If he can't touch her, he should at least be able to see the way her fingers look as they move over her.

He tries to stand again, forgetting the restraints, and he sees the way his need pleases her. "What's wrong, Castle?" she asks, so assured and confident.

"Nothing," he lies.

"You wish you were touching me?"

"Absolutely," he confesses instantly.

"Wish you were inside me?"

"Desperately."

Beckett stands, reaching behind her for the zipper on her skirt and undoing it before it flutters to the ground. She steps out of it, then shrugs her shirt the rest of the way off as well. She's only wearing the lingerie, and it leaves so little to the imagination. He squints his eyes, searching for a patch of wetness over her nipples left by his mouth. The panties are pulled to the side from when she touched herself, a glimpse of pink flesh finally offered to him.

By now, he's already too far gone to really enjoy seeing her this way, although he's already made note to ask her to put this outfit on again in the near future. He's going to reverse the roles and return this delectable torment back at her. He's going to enjoy every square inch of her body wrapped in lace. Revenge will be sweet, when it comes.

"You're gorgeous," he breathes as he looks her over. And she is beautiful, stunningly so, from her hair down to her stilettos. It's a risk to say anything that hasn't been requested by her, but it must be said.

Noting a strange feeling, he wonders if it's a sense of unworthiness, or the fact that his pants feel so constraining that it's becoming increasingly difficult to wait. She's still for only a few seconds, but he senses her evaluation. With a few steps she's in front of him and she whispers more tenderly, "Pants look tight."

"A little," he winces.

She flashes the briefest smile, something that assures him that she really does care about his comfort even during this scene. The smile disappears before she drops down in front of him, her hands massaging up the tops of his thighs until she reaches his belt. Sliding it open with precision, she gazes up at his face. It's the love behind the lust that sends a hot shiver up his spine. Mercifully she opens his button and parts his zipper more quickly than he'd expected her to. Her mouth is so near him, and he tries not to appear half as eager as he is. He wonders if he's literally lifting toward her, or just really, really wants to. He likes doing many intimate things with her, but the talents of Beckett's mouth are unrivaled, and he knows how damn much he wants to feel her on him. Of course he wants so many things in this moment that in some way he's relieved he does not need to choose.

He's wearing some of the smooth, luxurious silk boxers he enjoys so much, and she softly strokes him, pets him really, over the fabric. The touch is soft, not nearly adequate, but feels so wonderful he can barely contain his appreciation.

Her body is between his knees, and he has them set wide apart, far wider than necessary to allow her access, but he doesn't want anything to get in the way. Kate's mouth comes into contact with him low, near the base, but the silk is still between them and her touch lacks the pressure he truly needs. Although damn it feels nice. Her lips work over him a bit, her breath making contact even where her mouth isn't.

He can feel her tongue at times through the separation, each hot exhalation warming him invitingly. The lack of touch for so long has made him more acutely aware of any contact now.

Her hands are braced on his thighs, her grip strong, and he wishes she would use the same force on the rest of his body.

He knows if she keeps going like this, at some point his cock will work its way out of the opening in his shorts, and he can't wait to feel her against him without the barrier. Then he notes the way she's careful not to allow him to poke through, how she makes certain he stays covered, and it seems additionally cruel. And still he loves it.

Beckett stands, slowly rolling her panties down her legs. The urge to lick the sensitive spot where her legs meet her body, or the dip next to her hip that makes her hot, or that place low on her tummy that always makes her squirm is as palpable as his other needs. He is ready, willing, and able to do absolutely anything she wants, but the lack of access to her, his inability to lick, nip, and fuck, is approaching true vexation.

Tilting his head quite unnaturally just for a flashing glance of her awaiting sex, he doesn't see enough before she directs his knees a little closer together and straddles his legs low on his thighs. The bra and bodice of her sexy little outfit remain.

She plucks the buttons on his shirt open so patiently, watching his chest as it's revealed. Pausing, she places a kiss over his heart before her arms encircle him beneath his shirt. Her kiss reveals her own impatience from the second her lips meet his. It's instantly deep, tongues seeking and finding, pulses pounding. The kind of kiss that possess a man, body and soul.

She pulls open his jacket and shirt, but because his hands are tied, she can't remove the clothes. He looks down his body as she does, her eyes following the center of his chest down to where his erection juts out of his open pants and now his boxers, too.

"I want to touch you so much," he growls, caring less by the second if he seems to be bursting with desire. After all, he is. "That's all I want to do, all I can even think of doing."

"I know," she answers alluringly. "And I want you to touch me. Believe me, I truly do."

"Maybe we could compromise…you could give me one hand," he bargains.

She shakes her head no slowly and stubbornly. "I can't do that."

"Think of how good it would feel...my hand on you while you continue to do whatever you want to me. I can't promise I'll be gentle...but I can promise that I will do whatever it takes...to make you feel good."

She nods and answers, "I know, Castle. I know you would...you _will_." He begins to feel the glee of victory, until she adds, "But the answer is still no. We're doing this my way. You don't get to choose."

"Payback's a bitch," he suggests. "Before you make your decision, remember...I'm taking inventory. Memorizing every tease, every moment that you hold out on me. And I'm going to get my revenge."

She hums as her breasts presses against his chest. "Maybe I'm counting on it."

"You are?" he feels surprised and it shows. For some reason, he thought tying her up would take some convincing.

"I've already imagined it, and I can't wait, Castle. I want to see what you'll do to me. Feel the anticipation, wondering what you're going to do next…what things you'd do if I couldn't take charge."

He nods. Even talking about reversing the roles, she's got him by the balls.

"But for now," she sweetly but firmly states, "you're still mine. This is my turn, my night, and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it."

Her hand worms down into his shorts, and he's lifting off the chair to get into her hand. She cups his balls, and, like so much of what she does, she's both firm and delicate. She massages, making him all too aware of the pressure built there, waiting for release. It feels nice, just being touched by her, but his need for more is overrunning anything else.

When she finally reaches her second hand between her legs to touch him, she grabs onto his cock and strokes without hesitation or tease. And hell yea, he's rising off of the chair, lifting her body as he lifts his own, fighting to get closer, somehow, some way. As she tugs with just the right amount of grip, his head lulls back as his body responds. He's not only a prisoner of the handcuffs, and her...he's trapped by his body, by the acquiescence biology demands.

He doesn't feel the sore spots emerging on his wrists or the aches of his muscles. Pleasure, adoration, and arousal supersede all else for the time. Her lips move to his ear and she purrs, "I love your cock. I love holding it in my hand, stroking it. I love sucking on it. I love it inside me, the way I feel when you're in me, buried deep inside. The way it hits all the right spots, fills me. It's so long and thick, and damn, Castle, you know how to use it."

"Then let me use it," his words are demanding but his tone is pleading. He doesn't even care if he's begging. She's taken him back, somehow, to so many nights when he wanted her, like years of longing could be compressed into a single moment of glorious frustration. Some nights he'd wanted love and some nights he wanted to fuck her so good she'd never forget it.

She continues, "You know just how to touch me. How to make me come, make those orgasm fire hard through me, or make them last. You know just how rough to be, how to make me feel thoroughly fucked, taken care of, every desire met."

How often would he have done anything to hear words like those? But the words just fuel him with more wanting, more needing. "Damn, Kate. Get up here. Now. Let me inside you. I'll fuck you however you want. Hard and fast. Long and slow. Tender and deep. Just tell me what you want and I'll do it. I'll do whatever you want, however you want it."

She lifts up and the moment her tightened nipple is in his face, he leans forward and takes the opportunity. He is not gentle, and she doesn't mind. He's as rough as he can be while still pleasing her, suckling like she may be his last meal. She arches her back to push her body toward his mouth, and he feels like maybe he's finally won this argument. He moves as much as he can, ravaging her neck, her collarbone, the flat of her chest, tugging her earlobe between his teeth. His insistence and fervor only seem to compel her.

He whines almost pathetically when she pulls away, bracing one hand behind his neck as she leans back. With her free hand, she begins at her jaw and follows the curves of her body. He thinks she's touching her skin like he does, savoring each sensation, trying to build her anticipation.

When her fingers move down to the bottom of her belly, her legs part further and his eyes are yanked downward to watch. Her touch spreads her labia, her middle finger very luxuriously circling her clit like she could do this forever. He starts to wonder if she will, if the wait will never end. Her stare is heavy on him, and when her finger lowers a bit more and disappears into her body, they each cry out. Hers is a needful, lusty gasp, something that signifies the beginnings of a need being satisfied. But his, his is a groan of frustration and covetousness. He wants that privilege to be his. He realizes he's saying, "No, no, no…" like he has control somehow.

Her eyes meet his, her face contorting with the pleasure she's creating, and she's not going to stop.

"Come on, Kate," he pleads. He doesn't sound composed. "That's not fair."

"I didn't forget about you," she soothes.

"I _need_ to touch you. I vow to you, I'll do whatever you want, follow instructions perfectly."

She giggles softly, far more affectionate than gloating. "We both know you won't."

"But I'll try really, really hard," he answers. Normally he'd say such things in his playfully teasing way, but every last syllable is honest and earnest.

Her laugh intensifies a little, and he finds himself smiling. The thing is, through all of this dirty little playtime, he loves her, and he could possibly love her forever. And he thinks maybe she feels the same about him. It's rare to find feelings like these paired with mind-blowing foreplay.

She reaches for his erection (he's so fucking turned on it _almost_ isn't fun anymore), and touches him with the fingers that were on (and in) her only seconds before. Her touch is decadent, her smooth, wet fluids coating him.

"You're killing me," he murmurs, groaning in pleasure as she fists his cock and tugs _just_ right. Damn she can handle him so perfectly, like they've been fucking for years instead of weeks. He wonders if she thinks the same of him, and he decides that when his 'revenge' for this scenario comes, he'll find out.

"Maybe I'm getting you back for all of those years of teasing…" she suggests, playfully biting his lower lip.

"Maybe. Wait. What? Me?" he scarcely manages to argue, eyes rolling up slightly because she's making him feel so fantastic using only her hands.

"Mmm hmm," she replies, scooting forward so he's at the very top of her thighs, his dick pressing against her center and begging for entry. "The suggestions, totally fucking inappropriate suggestions, I might add. The flirting. Those touches, tiny, seemingly insignificant touches, and those looks…sometimes teasing, sometimes sensual, sometimes so full of openness and admiration. And _never_ anything to back it up."

She's not angry or accusing, she's playing this lovers' game. He likes it in some ways, and hates it in others. It's insane, to argue at this, but he manages to. Sort of. "I was never teasing," he promises, his voice showing how close he is to reaching resolution. "Not for a second."

"You're going to deny the absolute litany of come-ons you've tried over the years? All of the various ways you tried to—"

"Not denying that," he interrupts. All of the muscles in his lower body tense as he pushes toward her, his physical self somehow believing that the chair and handcuffs are no match for his desire. "But it wasn't _teasing_. Not for a second. All you had to do was say 'yes' at any given time."

"That's not true," she scoffs.

"It is. I would have gladly followed through the second you consented. So it was never, ever, a tease. They were offers. Maybe even promises. But never teases."

When her fingers let go, he first thinks she's punishing him. She stands before him and yanks his boxers down to mid-thigh and immediately returns to his lap. Her arms wind around him, her forearms cradling his head as she kisses him, disintegrating any argument he might have made. Her thighs tighten as she lifts onto her tiptoes, and he misses the feeling of her well-muscled legs or ass in his hands.

She slides her cleft over his cockhead, her body fluttering when his presses against her clit, and he feels hope dawn as she aligns their bodies. No argument escapes her lips, not that he gives a damn about any argument anymore. Everything he is made of is focused on her.

It's hot, so hot, the way she doesn't use her hands to guide their bodies to union. Her legs are butterflied open, her most intimate, personal place offered to him. And, hell, he's so hard, poking forward like his cock could somehow demand her to comply. She's so incredibly fit that he's sometimes a little intimidated by it, but the way she angles her hips and hovers over him makes him forget that. They're aligned, perfectly, and he knows he's right at the precipice, predicting the soft squeezing of her depths.

As she lowers the tiniest bit, he's pressing against her, only inside until the point of slight resistance. He wants to pop through that, to push past the tightness and stretch her around him. She's kissing him, devouring any doubt or sadness that could exist, but not his longing. "Please, honey. God, Kate. Please, pl—"

She interrupts, silences his words, as she shifts down and lets him over the threshold. They share breath and pants of lustful desire. She calls out "Ooo," high-pitched and vulnerable, her brows gathered and eyes wide as she clamps down on the first few inches of his manhood.

He's wondered before if she works out her tight quim like she works out the rest of her, because the way that she pulses and clamps feels like something she's strived for, too good to be the natural state. Her body is quivering just a bit from the tension of bracing herself over him. Then, with the same careful control she employs in all matters, she patiently allows him to sink the rest of the way into her. Like the slow swell of a tide, she engulfs him, her breath stuttered with moans of satisfaction and longing.

It isn't like he lacks confidence, but she has a way of making him feel longer, thicker, harder than he probably is. With her, he always feels like he's the best that ever was, that ever could be. It's strange because her words have so often been used to attempt to dismantle his admittedly inflated ego. But like this, in moments of passion, she makes him feel that there is no one better. He isn't certain if she does it intentionally (it's more about her actions and sounds than her words) or if it is unintended, but it's yet another facet of this thing they share that makes being with her so highly addictive.

"Fuck, you feel good," he's praising involuntarily. "You're the best feeling."

When he's completely enveloped within her, she pauses, her forehead against his. This pause isn't the torturous kind. No, he's grateful for a moment to gather himself, although he's so utterly horny that he can't even come up with something to think of to calm himself down.

As much as he's pleaded for this to happen, now that she's giving him what he wants so badly, he doesn't want it to end too quickly.

Things begin again more slowly while she rides him, the two melding into one in ways beyond their sexes. Each time she takes him in, she's thorough, swallowing him up entirely and abandoning him just to the point right before they'd lose contact. When he's completely inside her, she circles her hips, his glans bumping her cervix, that's how close, how tight, how complete they are when she allows them to merge. Still he wants more, wishes that he could get so much farther, deeper into her. Their kisses are as deep and yearning, seeking more closeness, more union, and even though their fucking and kissing and breathing have become one, it's nowhere near enough. He still wants more.

She kisses his neck and shoulder as she picks up the tempo. She balances her feet on the leg braces beneath the chair to get leverage. The pleasure intensifies because even though so much of him is restricted, she's communicating with his body on a very primal, biological level, and at this point his libido doesn't give a damn what his hands may want.

Beckett is asserting her will and taking him as she pleases, screwing him according to her desires, her tempo, the will of her body. It is absolutely perfect. And he knows this whole thing will pepper his fantasies forever.

He manages to plant his feet on the ground so he can meet her body as she rides him, he can push up against her a bit. At least that's something. His thighs and calves burn as the muscles are overtaxed and exhausted, although he doesn't much mind or even acknowledge that either.

She speaks as she continues to bounce on his lap, her words punctuated by the meeting of their thrusts. "See," she says, her voice emerging like musical sex, "you can't listen. You can't just sit there and be fucked."

It takes several seconds for his response to emerge. His neck strained, his words come out in as few phonemes as possible while still conveying his ideas. "That'a probl'm?"

"I know who I'm in bed with," she replies, the squeaking gasp at the end of each moan telling him she's ridiculously close.

She grows tighter inside, her walls more rigid and pulsing. Her own ecstasy increases his. He wishes he had the wherewithal to hold off, to let her orgasm on him and then free him to take her back. But he doesn't, and at this point, he's having too much fun to fight it, not to mention the fact that his body needs release more than a man can bear.

When she bites his ear, tugging roughly, a feeling that reminds him of the way she used to manhandle him before they were together, it's so hot. The pain marries the pleasure. All he knows is her, the feeling, the sensation, smell and sound of her everywhere. She becomes almost too tight, but she doesn't slow or cease, she refuses to be stalled.

As she reaches her climax, Kate screams something about him coming inside her. The sentiment is enough to slay his resistance.

He wants to come in her, so deeply and thoroughly that they can't be extricated. He wants to claim her and be claimed. Even as he comes, as the only thing that exists is him, her, and their intersection, all encompassing elation seizes him.

His release is powerful and full, and then so little strength is left within him. His heartbeat monopolizes his hearing, as he just tries to breathe again. Then he feels her forehead resting on his shoulder.

Post-coital Beckett is about as sweet as she gets. As much as he adores her personality in its fully glory, he also enjoys this tender, gentle, sleepy side he's only recently been introduced to.

He turns and appreciatively and affectionately kisses her temple. He tries to touch her, but all he can do is lean his head upon hers. He remembers other times they recovered in each others arms, rubbing his hands over her back, caressing and holding her while they while they rebounded, sometimes before another round of lovemaking, sometimes before falling asleep together.

She hops off of him too soon, like she still has energy even though he's depleted. It's so chilly without her against him. She circles behind him to undo the handcuffs. "So...you like that?" she asks.

"Hell yea," he answers, intentionally emphatic. Then, devoutly, he adds, "But I wasn't joking about getting revenge."

"Mmm," she agrees, "and I wasn't joking…I eagerly await your retribution."

He rubs his wrists for a few seconds while she comes back to the front of him and takes a seat on his lap. Knowing that she thinks he's down for the count, he chooses to surprise her.

He is sated, in a way, but part of him still feels the lingering neglect she forced on him. Standing abruptly, he grabs onto her just before she could fall. He takes her to the table, drops her on the surface, and his hands are all over her.

This time when he kisses her, he holds her face in his hands. His touch appreciates the delicate grace of her neck, the caps of her shoulders and chiseled muscles down her back. The lingerie once so admired is now loathed, and he needs to get rid of it. He deftly pops the long series of clasps up the back of her bodice, while wrapping her legs around him and tilting her head just perfectly to kiss her. The moment the pink of her nipple emerges from her lingerie, his hand is there, palming, pinching. He needs to touch her so his hands and heart can find some release.

Kate giggles, one of those sexy, surprised giggles, and she whispers, "That wasn't enough for you?"

As he looks into her eyes, he sees happiness, excitement, love, and even wonder. He wants her to feel craved, longed for, admired and adored. She is truly remarkable. Having her these past few weeks, unraveling some of her mysteries, doesn't make her any less so.

"Never enough," he vows as he yanks her hips forward on the table, still unable to tame his wandering touch.


End file.
